Walking down, down, down. Hearing the shoes hit the dark, cold, wet ground. On the dark ground lies a chainsaw. I pick apart into little edible pieces to consume. I prepare a steely, uncomfortable, cold dinner to inhale my food findings. Once I finish crunchy and gnawing the old slightly rusty metal I go to sleep in my recycled bed of nails for a goodnight of insomnia. I walk barefoot out on the icy concrete to greet my friend. He said I had chainsaw breath, and he was jealous.