A Spectator of Senses

I feel insane all of the time.

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The sun goes up but it’s not bright—even when I look directly at it.

At night the street doesn’t darken, it just starts to buzz with

nocturnal animals, one of which ate the last bit of my face and both

eyeballs.

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But I still see. I still hear and sense terrifying things lurking in what

used to be night time shadows that, in this state of purgatory, take

the shape of demons with dead souls burning like gasoline in

their eyes—windows to hell. They bleed upon my bones at night

and construct an inescapeable slideshow of misery, torture,

murder, and suffering until morning. Night is hate. Disgusting,

wretched hate.

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Then I hear the warmth in a bird’s song and the sun rises. No

longer able to feel, I sense the giver of life in the noises that life

makes. And with the hardship of night as an intense backdrop I

come to understand what love is—alleviation, tranquility, and

peace.

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I’m a spectator of senses in a heap of bones, waiting another day,

hoping to be buried before night fall.

The End

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