I distinctly remember cold mornings when the janitor trudged mundanely enters his boots upon the tile floor bringing a large plastic bottle filled with a red liquid.

As if laying all his burdens out, he pours the liquid upon the tiles eradicating it of all my friends and killing them like those massacred in the holocaust.

Their screams were muted as swiftly as the wind takes away dandelions and makes it nothing but particles in the air.

This acidic liquid is known by the humans as phenyl and this occurs on a daily basis.

There are seven stalls where humans do strange acts of impurity. My eyes have witnessed brown, viscous blobs of goo expelling from their rears with bizarre expressions on their visages. As a human might connect to this, and how pleasurable it is for them to do so !

I have seen diabetic patients holding receipts for medication and producing a rather colourful fountain from their bodies. They ‘flush’ all this and I including the spider by the window find this flushing quite amusing. It were as if they removed all their bad memories and thoughts from that oval object- ‘the toilet’.

The seven stalls represent the seven heavens. It is sad and ironic to know that our heavens are corrupted with humans who write their histories within these enclosed walls. They are rather artsy in doing so with all that black spray paint with vulgar and profane language to express themselves- ‘call me at …’ , ‘ want to make love babe?’ and so such salacious statements are inscribed into these walls that are bender washed.

I live in a place , a vicinity too violent to describe and all the above is too less define the quintessence of what it is to live in a stall bathroom.

I would describe the bullies who plunged their poor victims heads into the toilets, once- a  man who got kicked into the stall, the culprit pulling the trigger at him and letting a bullet go through his heart which was probably revenge. The poor man was only minding his business and now only his blood splattered across the wall.

Then the baby cockroaches that were killed by the gentle sweeping of the wiper.

Yet I do not  pity all this terror to which I have become to accustomed to. To see all my dear brothers burn in the acid. And this is where I live and that is all.