I have an odd fetish with nails. I was always doing beauty blogs about nails, and it would be on Fridays called Fridays Fingertip Fetish. It became so popular that a nail polish company approached me, and Fingertip Fetish was born.
Morning or night, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, everything was the same: the gnawing, excruciating, incessant pain; that awareness of life irrevocably passing but not yet gone; that dreadful, loathsome death, the only reality, relentlessly closing in on him; and that same endless lie. What did days, weeks, or hours matter?
The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.