demoivre

The smell of flowers.
The jagged wet of monochromatic delirium.
The cacophonous beat (four-four time with solid-sound feedback) of a stainless steal head banging against the headboard of reality.

Caffeine. Smokes. Whispered promises backed up with an incantation done deosil.

Resting at home, the Foolish dream of midnight, finding longing.

Fucking with the mind until dawn, the Wicked collapse, finding peace.

All the while, the Shadow laughs ad nauseam.

--The Tao of Razorwire Tantra, 6