time had no place within the confines of these walls – they were not filled with dust or bones, nor were they filled with thoughts that i could call my own, for i abandoned that rite when i slid the walls shut. a bit of hope came in the form of a lamp, for it lit the room dim, inviting a means of direction – not self reflection, but dissection.

monotonous picking, cycled precision; a professional obsession.
the deathly instruments that cursed these pages, that sung notes cast on corpses
they burnt hot with the pain of raw skin and wept all day and night
there are so many eyes now; more than before. i didn’t think that would stop me, but it did. a fully realized… the last cloak i have being such ominously coded words strung together with enough pressure

song by gydja
art by michel henricot