I dim the lights whenever I can, It’s better that way, I cry out in excitement as my demons seep out from the cages along with my thoughts to engage in the most elaborate and most exquisite of dances, dance of the wicked.
The vile and the sinful among thoughts flooding my head compete for the luxury of embracing the most competent of fiends ruling the ruins under my skull and its pale, thin skin.
Such an astonishing scene entertains the derelict I most evenings, for I can’t seem to meet with my spinning mind or my demonic companions in broad daylight, they hide and pierce me inside out trying to break free from their mandatory confinement and by anything that is unholy, I can barely tolerate most mornings.
I absolutely adore the darkness, where I can only see wanderings and infernal friends manifesting before my eyes, where I could write with a barely visible pen creating words and worlds, darkened and unknown.
I write elaborately and intensely until hell breaks loose when the agonizing light prevents me from seeing and the beautifully insane cycle begins again.