The unending womb of despair.
Begins with waking.
I fear I will never dream pleasantly again.
I fear... there will be no dawn for me, no refuge, nowhere.
There is someone here, who wants to speak.
His name is self-loathing.
He speaks from within.
"Fly."
He says with a grin full of rotting teeth, clacking gold baubles on my chair.
Fly, but all I wanted was to dream.
Would he settle for just gliding?
"Drift?"
The leathery man shifted, releasing a hissing cackle, creaking quietly with age.
My response failed him.
It shambles to the darkest corner of the room.
Melting into shadow, waiting for me, yellowed eyes watching.
I can still hear his shuddering breath, practically feel the stench on my lips.
Do I now suffer poor self-image, or true-self image, that would be the question.
What treasures have I lost tonight?
Is there nothing left?
What new hell might this night still conjure... what did I do to deserve it all?
