Apr. 10th, 2016

I would mistake myself inside out and turn corners to points. A sea of bones in clattering cacophony. Dry, retch, let the Good Men escape with their briefcases and fresh ironed faces- smooth from nose to chin, lipless prisons for mouths, hands held palm up to show the smiles sewn along life-lines silent and mumbling narrators every handshake a deadfish kiss.

The Good Men tell you this is all lies. The Good Men come to you on your first night. Your first sleep. Maybe you're clutched in a new Mother's arms, maybe you're in a crib, a manger, a taxi cab, an airplane, a bombed out office building that used to sell insurance, a mud hut, under the open sky. The Good Men come to you on your first night, your first sleep, invisible halos, eyes of blinding empty, smile lipped palms raised in greeting.

An eye rolls down a spiral staircase and a man four thousand miles away clutches his head in vertigo.

I saw myself in red. Antlered and skull faced. Wielding a scepter woven from lives, threads stretching off to every horizon. Overwhelming sense of approach. Ever increasing, ever increasing in it's rate of increase, but never. Quite. Arriving. Madness lies in that gap- our inheritance, our specter, our inspiration and our doom.

Awake and leap to the floor. Turn on all the lights. Clutch myself. Tear at my clothes, my hair, my skin, dig nails into flesh, pace and snort and punch the walls, the furniture. Waves of chills and goosepimpled skin. I hold my head in shaking hands. The Fear is visceral. Nothing is familiar though I know it should be. It should be. I should be. I should be, but I know I'm not. I'm not. I know I should b

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