In many moments similar as these, I often find that my voice has been completely silenced. Somehow, someway, I felt the tinge of release as I laid down to finally fall deeply into the recesses of my own mind away from the day. Even in my supposed sleep, my mind never releases its grasps from its deepest fears and horrors. All manner of my existence is exhausted even with the sandman's magic upon my sullen eyes. I find no rest in the winters of my own heart.

I seldom ever write during these darkened moments. The images floating through my mind confuddle and trouble me in such unimaginable ways. As if some eldritch wizard is toying with me all throughout my waking and slumbering. Images of a child bathed in oil and gasoline who wears a bear's trap upon his head as a crown. Images of a decrepit old man with his chest cavity splayed open, he plucks at the sinews near his heart as if to play an instrument, yet no sound is heard other than the howling winds in that distant desert where the sand dunes tower like mountains.

These... conditions of my cave are horrendous to say the least. Death's hands have painted my open sores' contents upon the walls. The bed of maggots feed off the crumbs of sanity that have kept me within this realm.

The voices of my past are likened to a river of cleanliness even when the words flay open my old wounds. There is no where else, for this has always been my refuge, my home. Words fo love were never meant for one such as I. I once believed these things, yet a different water is one I find myself drowning in.

Never mistake my words for honey or soothing seals, for what dwells within me is darker than vantablack.