Even Flow
Catatonic
Catatonic
The walls are riddled with scars and moving. They breathe, wheezing. They speak incoherent things that make sense, but I can’t comprehend it. I know they’re saying something important. They’re telling me to watch out. What for? What’s wrong? There’s definitely something going on. I’m anxious. My nerves are bubbling; it’s like my nerves are tiny bubbles of acid inside my body. They’re bouncing off the walls that make up my skin, made of raw leather from the rotten hide of reptiles. Lizards riddle the ceiling. Faster and faster, they’re poisoning me. Poison is spinning from the sky washing down upon me like raindrops, following the wind, a current, a crooked shepherd, leading them down the croaking road to Hades.
Sarah’s arms are bent and close to her face. Her fingers are hard and brittle, curled in agony. She’s staring at the ceiling, and she can’t close her eyes. Her body flails, then stiffens. She’s grimacing, teeth gnashed in rage.
‘You are sick and afraid. You seek the truth through the closed eye of a liar, a fake imposter. Those that would show you the Way are fruitless. There is no showing the blind. There is telling. There is coercing into misconceived illness. There is no redeeming into salvation those that wonder because they are truly lost in shadows of monsters they don’t even acknowledge.’
The quagmire stands there leaking nauseating gases that are seeping into my pores, making the pit of me sick. He’s telling me that I’m intangible. He’s telling me that I’m not real. He’s holding the head of a lion between his long, blackened, cracking nails, knuckles white as porcelain, and the lion is still roaring with thunder, white lightening crashing through it’s eyes, tears of blood fainting, falling, staining the floor. I can’t tell what’s going on through this tunnel that’s captured me.
Sarah’s smacking the wall with her bare hand, not her fist. Her wrist is bleeding. She’s biting her bottom lip raw with breaking teeth, unable to withstand the erosion caused by nature’s most furious disease. Her disease is never going to end; it will not stop. She’s fighting, but she’s not. It will have all of her.
‘My name is Schizor
Phrenia, and I will eat you WHOLE.’
The walls are riddled with scars and moving. They breathe, wheezing. They speak incoherent things that make sense, but I can’t comprehend it. I know they’re saying something important. They’re telling me to watch out. What for? What’s wrong? There’s definitely something going on. I’m anxious. My nerves are bubbling; it’s like my nerves are tiny bubbles of acid inside my body. They’re bouncing off the walls that make up my skin, made of raw leather from the rotten hide of reptiles. Lizards riddle the ceiling. Faster and faster, they’re poisoning me. Poison is spinning from the sky washing down upon me like raindrops, following the wind, a current, a crooked shepherd, leading them down the croaking road to Hades.
Sarah’s arms are bent and close to her face. Her fingers are hard and brittle, curled in agony. She’s staring at the ceiling, and she can’t close her eyes. Her body flails, then stiffens. She’s grimacing, teeth gnashed in rage.
‘You are sick and afraid. You seek the truth through the closed eye of a liar, a fake imposter. Those that would show you the Way are fruitless. There is no showing the blind. There is telling. There is coercing into misconceived illness. There is no redeeming into salvation those that wonder because they are truly lost in shadows of monsters they don’t even acknowledge.’
The quagmire stands there leaking nauseating gases that are seeping into my pores, making the pit of me sick. He’s telling me that I’m intangible. He’s telling me that I’m not real. He’s holding the head of a lion between his long, blackened, cracking nails, knuckles white as porcelain, and the lion is still roaring with thunder, white lightening crashing through it’s eyes, tears of blood fainting, falling, staining the floor. I can’t tell what’s going on through this tunnel that’s captured me.
Sarah’s smacking the wall with her bare hand, not her fist. Her wrist is bleeding. She’s biting her bottom lip raw with breaking teeth, unable to withstand the erosion caused by nature’s most furious disease. Her disease is never going to end; it will not stop. She’s fighting, but she’s not. It will have all of her.
‘My name is Schizor
Phrenia, and I will eat you WHOLE.’