Thursday 1 October 2020


I am burning pages, in dreaming. Pages that seek to pass as lost, shattered truth. I rarely burn written things, regardless of their abhorrence to me, but I’m particularly terrified on this night. A silver dish awaits me in my candle-lit cell, standing on legs of iron. Tapers and wick sit beside. I can smell the sickness of the burning paper and the sleeping horrors therein. Many times I’ve wished I was dead, or forgotten, or mere figment. Tonight is one of those times...

The Night Sun

No comments:

Post a Comment