I do not sleep. Only dream.
In my dreams I destroy the great glacial spirals - helixes within helixes, smashed into null. The churning glassy twists of deoxyribonucleic acid guiding the bipedal virus upon the rock dubbed Sol 3 by the sycophantic men of wisdom are naught but dust, and with that truth vanishes man.
Science and God die together, holding onto one another and shrieking ochre as the walls of the dreamscape crush them into no more than a darkly dreamt divergence into the mind's eye of the wild and hungry face looking back through the mirror.
The coffee spills upon the carpet, the blood of the bean seeping through the cracks below. Wisps of ephemeral golden vapour dance from the bleeding distiller.
It is not my face in the mirror.
It is not my skin that wraps around my bones and flesh.
I feel the coldness of the rapier draught that passes under the door as the spidery woman returns in a red dress and with a twitching face.
Am I still dreaming?
That is the quintessential question that rockets around the obsidian palace as I slide into the vibrant reds and oranges, tasting the metallic flavour upon her lips.
Mechnical, as always.
The mile long legs extend into navy infinity as the great pale orb rises in the sky and the stars blaze in the sky.
The kisses taste of blood.
The tattoos on her back begin to writhe and take shape upon the sixth plane, bending and twisting as the sit up and shriek with fury.
I leave, shrouded in midnight and shame, part of me still trapped by the arachnid in Room 44.