my room's a mess, antiques things scattered about, suitcases lamps and chairs. all waiting being eaten away by time. down here it's cold and dark 'cept for one lonely light above my head. i have a fan turned on to undo the ambiance of this dreadful place, the only audible reminder im being torn down is the reverberations of the house above settling. wires hang from all around. plugged unplugged a cacophony of orange brown white tentacles. i scratch at the wounds on my arms and shudder with queer delight. each scab peeling away getting stuck between my bitten fingernails. some blood pours out, i don't care. boredom is the worst horror of them all, a silent catastrophe i have to face each and every night. a bad dream, like, sitting-on-the-toilet-the-whole-dream bad. i could pick up a book, by a dead man, by a mean pretending to be dead, and alive one. drowning my sorrows in each one's mythos, but only to realize they are near the same as mine. the cold outside is reaching in and i can not turn away. turned so extremely neutral i just sit and continue, nothing. mold is growing, i feel as if it's growing in me too. the air shutes down the throat like warm fuzzy
razors.