So I was stuck and the smell was as real as the reflection on the stale walls, being invisible is obviously special.

Hot dark made with night time, each room picked me to follow the sole companion. I didn’t do much, I just

That black smell, in the cooking of old, dried lard, in the dirty frying pan. The summer of fun outside the walls.  The empty reasons, for wall appearance, no other companion.

We just dropkick our emptiness, and want to stick onto the closest thing. So, I made a friend of the Emperor. I was a quiet hum, walking through a broken air. Because a lonely persons esteem becomes very, downstairs, a shadow inside the battle.

A poor kill.

Im mean, that, here downstairs, I was fractured and cut off. But what was funny was that, I accepted the thing; that curse…I was a clump, htat loathed myself, I said this each time, I got out of bed, and stepped past It’s position in the wall, close to my head of the mattress, perhaps more of It, with me, beause It had got extremely quiet. I just had little falls in my mind, the anger in me was being forced through little walls called acceptance of anything.

Smell the smell the real lights, all my sleeping left quick, or brighter impulses behind, and as I did only small things, no challenges, I could see It was getting smaller inside Itself. It was getting as small as me. So, that, my dozy neutrality, called up one complete truce.

I never htought of this; if I would ever see the great parts of life. I still did the same quiet things. How long did I think a day would last? I had schisms, like vibrating physical parts of delayed emotions, that were rushing and crashing into each other in one solid queue of disasters, and tumbling like dominos, until they were mixed in together, collapsed thoughts were all discarded because there wasn’t enough time to pick them up.

I got taken into It, I didn’t know It’s personal thoughts, even if it could have thoughts that were person. It was a monster. I knew the shape of It’s face, without looking, I had small threads over the eyes, little black dresses, that flittered over the base of It, and wasn’t frightened, knew It’s look, but too scared to look at It’s mass, or origin, or how It could have formed. It had formed from Evil. It had a man’s voice.

I hated the type of man, I ate delicately under It’s nose. I never spoke to It, though. I was tired of all the crying and calling out. I got some days back, realised silence.

Then far off, I heard screaming. I balanced my spoon on the edge of a cup, and let the cornflakes mould, while I flicked my eyelids, thinking.

. See some scream, so be the noise.