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     There is no prayer for the darkness...inside me. I don't want to go back there. I am not sure I want to go back to the light, but the darkness...the darkness is consuming. So cold...why does it have to be so cold? I hate...hate the rules the universe abides by.

     My fingers...they flex as another rush of cool air ceases their stroke. I can't feel...anything except pain. I care nothing for this life. Now all I hunger for is...death's kiss. But...it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters. In the end there is no one to care.

     If I take my own life...I want to make it clear it was a choice forced upon me by the cruelty of mankind. I so loathe the essence their deceit wraps around me. But again...it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters because...in the end no one believes you are worth a damn.

     Or perhaps it is just me whom has no one to care or believe.

     Solace was never my friend and as I sit here casting fleeting observations over my shoulder at the convulsive bulk in the corner I am reminded of a time when such truth may have been an opinion. The days of yesteryear are far behind me; smothered by present day and its insistence on strife.

     This room isn't as it seems. Many secrets reside here, but not as much as nightmares and her cohorts. To name names would be far too great yet having brandished my own taste of bitterness I will disclose one. Her name is Carol though she is anything but a woman. After all most women have hearts and compassion, don't they?

     She isn't your typical high school bully. Judging by her poor grammar skills she probably never made it that far, but even in the fifties schools taught all the core subjects, didn't they? Having been born much later I wouldn't know and still I have a better inclination than she ever will.

     At last my attention must shift again to the mass. I turn in my chair and c**k my head to one side. It is a beautiful oddity in the way its smooth muscles glistens and bodily fluids ooze like syrup.

     Beyond the cream beige blinds and panes of glass awaits a palace of nightmares and torture. They come in all shapes, sizes and colors; breeds and creeds. Some may wear a smiling face while others fancy a scowl, but their intentions are always the same. Some label themselves as if to stand out from the herd. They practice zealous authority and exercise brute force. Of course not all are so forth coming in their quest for superiority. There are those whom care more for the element of surprise.

      Here I sit at this machine with a full belly, but an empty soul. I wish I knew what I was good for. The clock mocks me with its red digits. They glare at me, reminding me time is not on my side and that I have very little of it left before they come calling.

      My toes curl in their cotton confinement. With sweat collecting between them continues to dampen the fresh fabric I refuse to acknowledge the reason behind my perspiration. It isn't as if I can ignore but rather imagine a different scenario in which I am not the captive of society's illness. Then again maybe it is my illness. Maybe I am the illness.

      Knives leave such pretty patterns. Serrated blades especially have a genius skill about them.  Have you ever noticed how blood creates its own genre of art? There are lines and splatter no other fluid can generate.