i am waiting, early in the morning, restless, and longing to hear that sweetest of voices. here is the voice of the demon, the temptuous, treacherous sounds a bones grinding against each other, of steam from fires that hisses, of dark things.
somewhere in the dust, the dust that crowds the cobwebs below my bed, my soul has taken refuge, crying bitterly over the aching distance that separates her from her counterpart, weeping over lost dreams and broken hearts and too many things must be analyzed, and too many things must be changed, and too many things.
too many voices echo in reply. old, young, female or male, varied accents, different languages, complex or simples ways of speaking. it is too much to try and separate them from each other.
somewhere, a little girl is crying.
a man stands sternly against the wall, arms folding, muttering curses.
a woman whispers.
a teenager sings harmonies.
a child. a child that bleeds out and dies. alone. all alone.
back on the surface, i am contemplating the difference in texture between fictitious and living hearts. my eyes wander opaque darkness of ceiling and walls.
i do not want to stay here any longer.