So in the story and so in life.
And the words form through keyboard and eye and brain, though not ever touching the emptiness, not impressing the coldness of time.
Lonely eyes scan across hungry pixels. White and unworthy space, ensnaring thoughts that cannot make it to the page. Not as they truly are.
I'm on my knees. This low, sunken state as a carrion carcass being picked and defiled by seagulls and ravens. I look at the stark ribs as they represent the final shadow of experience. Picked bare.
I see my reflection. I ask myself can I do this or will I fail?
I don't know.
I awaken and smell black like Decayed Soot, carbon lungs fill with the air of tepid lakes.
Awaken to the realisation that I have been in a coma, taken. Gone.
The heady times; rushing, stumbling, laughing. Now slaughtered on the altar.
The thing is there back on the skull, sucking at the juices of my being. It has me.
by Paul Sinclair