I am just built like this, I guess, and
that little fucking voice of mine in
my head is just a consequence of
certain atoms assembling into place,
certain DNA and certain cells
deciding to act up as they wish. Which
would be fine were it not for the
shadows...the shadows...the shadows.
I dwell inside myself, and the walls
are not painted. There are things
scurrying around, somewhere, in the
pitch black. I talk to them quite a lot.
It makes me weary, though. Intensely
so. But at least they talk back. I think
it would be worse if they didn't. Well,
maybe not. But at least the scurrying
things want me. Maybe they love me too?
That wouldn't be so bad, I think.
M. M. — 23-Feb-2016
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