“We can’t all start confessin’ to the first babe to poke our chests, there’d be no unsolved crimes! But I’ll try for ya, I’ll try a little, lemme think, lemme think…”
He laughs, but does quiet as he tries to really think about how he got here. It’s a nagging feeling, not remembering—he hates it.
The longer here thinks and paces around the shelf, the more he picks at his coat, picking at the buckles with his nails. He rubs the back of his neck and then the back of his head, sighing.
“… I really dunnno much, I think I… was in the street, or somethin’? Real dark but real bright. Ugh, woke up and my head hurt so bad I’d guess I was the one who died, not some other bitch.”
