Crackle. Hiss. Drone. Languish over your chance to change. Face each moment as it passes by as a cloud or a speeding car. Are you practiced in the art of forged response? We await you patient like a still-life as it is drawn. Now you’re longing for your card to be pulled. All heavy, hot breath and rapid heartbeat, no wonder there is no sleep in here. Each conclusion is a chemical degrading; what a pitifully short half-life. And I care to hear each idea before it expires. We just need time to cease and a cell in which to waste. No hasty exits, no moderated movements, no flippancy or atrophy. A muscle withered like a long-abandoned cobweb cannot lift spirits. Frail lies lead the afflicted south. We are parched and speechless. You are satiated by divine might. Throw back your hair and laugh, child. It is easier than conveying cynical prognoses. Crackle. Hiss. Drone. This tome has already been written. Each word an old sin. Curdled terms repeat like rapid pulses running in circles. My disservice to that surface scratch enabled its infection. In fact, there is a lesson to be learned from lurking in the realm of bad thoughts: never listen. The addition of two distant suspicions forms nightmarish apparitions. Let them pass. Close old creaking doors in darkened recesses, and worry not about a flurry of feelings aimed at fanning flames. You don’t address an incubus. Don’t ever utter that name again.
