I look down. Blood. A dull knife. I look around. Cheese. A sink. A pitcher. I grab the pitcher. I try not to drip blood anywhere. I open the cabinet. Gratuitous amounts of pitchers. I open the fridge. Lemons fall out all over the floor. I grab another pitcher to bleed into. I grab some lemons and squeeze them into the other pitcher. Squishing between my fingers, like a handful of cerebral matter. I taste the mixture. I can feel myself lighten up. It’s the most delicious taste that’s ever had the delight of grazing my taste buds. I want to share it with the world. I’m filling up a third pitcher, I can’t make enough lemonade. The lemonade is spilling onto the floor. I slip, lose my stance, and fall to the ground. My lemonade is gushing from the wound. I can’t move. My life is overflowing with lemonade. I can’t breathe. I am drowning in the lemonade. Help me!! I need someone to take this lemonade! I reach out, looking for a hand to save me. Nothing comes, and I drown in my own lemonade.