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