hypodermic

it is closing in...
even now as i sit in the center of this attic - with every accessible lamp that i could find, illuminating every chip in the walls; every cobweb in every corner; every lifeless shell snared in those cobwebs- i can feel something closing in.
as i sit in the center of this dank, dusty room; legs crossed, torso rocking back and...
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something different than us...

so many layers; the strata so deep
post synaptic ganglia, viscera asleep
inervated nerves; severed at the root
nothing is clean, nothing they wouldn't pollute.

could it be true?
if i say it is, it is so.

what right do you claim for your existence?

and if i tell you it's the will of god, would you take up the sword...
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time may heal all wounds;
but these stitches are not helping.
They hurt; and the gnawing sensation, the purulent drainage, the enraged skin... tells me that infection has set in.
There is not much time now; and time, with its benevolent willingness to heal all wounds, will not bestow that luxury unto me. If I succeed in avoiding the ambient dangers, then certainly the internal...
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