A thousand Kafkas, arithmetically sound; file the dreams scouted awkwardly in your sleep. It’s the low sleep; the sleep of dogs left dying. None shall trespass here in hollow space – none will hear your cries, or read your laughter. It is a wretched thing - scrutinized by panels and commentators in the prime time of your imagination – it is a wretched thing.
You are a pile of limp bed clothes in an empty room. You are the blossoming of dead flowers in the dark. You are the silent echo of screaming corruption; poured out as congealed blood into the night. No-one can reach you now; you’re out of kilter. This place is the last elaborate station before damnation – there are no roads out of here, just a gradual sinking into nothing.
This journey was in your stars; this place was always primed for your acceptance – you want to go home, but you are home. You were incarcerated for possessing a criminal mind – you saw crime in everything, you saw injustice everywhere, but you lacked the imagination to act like a criminal – you had to play the martyr. So take this crown of thorns and sow your dirty sheets. There are betrayals and crucifixions to re-enact before ever you see another dawn.