I awake to the sound of knocking; a dram within a dream, screaming.
It is a heartbeat, I am certain, never ceasing. Of this, I am sure, beyond; its regular thud and muffled insistence, the uniform patter of existence.
There is one here in the room with me, almost silent, never still, tempering the breathing to my dreaming, an eventual end of beatings.
Unbelieving, comes the alarmed echo of being, thieving from the thing.
Faith is just a thing's seeming.
Panic, sudden suffocation. In fright lost first to nerves, and then dread, terror and hysteria.
Panic leaps from operation to undertaking, without a doctor's whisper. Never more than a lanced pustule, broken blister, an incision.
Haunting, taunting, the uniform pumping of its tough fibrous purpose.
Haunting, taunting, the uniform pumping of its tough fibrous purpose.
In this sudden stop, panic is certain.
The lamp has drawn its curtain.
