I look at the screen. What have I done. Amygdala shoots, what the fuck have I done. Some sort of horror show of writing, my Necronomicon, my Book of Revelation. I hated it. Sweat drips down, big bold beads. Door knocks. Adamu. Tea. Wine. Business man trip. Wave goodbye to Raahu and Cerberus. Back to the horror on the screen.

Stop. Think.

Stop. 

Think. 

Not all men need be mindless sculptures. 

Until that realisation dawns over the unwashed 

masses, this sculpture of man is weeping.

If teardrops won't fall, then cry in scarlet..

Serenity is nigh.

Long gone past midnight in the morning hour
My mind still hasn't had any rest
Something unnatural, a feeling so alien
Grows inside and keeps me awake

Thoughts turning blank, can't quite put my finger
On what exactly this feeling is
An emptiness that spawns out of nothing
Yet occupies the space all over my head