I’m muddled. The final bastion is broken. Even then it’s not poetic. No soliloquy to lay me down. No maiden to brush my hair and apply scents. I’m alone with the candles. Ashen wicks on pale towers of phosphorescence. I am the tower, the last barrier. The divots and rivulets reflect madness. Brewed by primitive cravings, the lunacy lingered and clutched tight, a desperate beast of knowledge. Hollow thoughts in a bruised mind. For weeks the only sound is the scratching and skittering of rats. This, and the shrieks. But they are my own screams, not of terror but of lack of company. A scream is a rock thrown to test company. A bellow proves just how alone one truly is. Who am I fucking kidding, though? This act, this charade of sophistication. Vigils held at moonlight only serve to show my arrogance. Fuck parchment.
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