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Fevers

Numb teeth chewing numb lips, clouded eyes staring through a haze of tears, fingers slowly pressing keys as if through gloves of intoxication, and the sound of clocks ticking, ticking, ticking. Isolated and shipwrecked, deserted by oneself, under an apocalypse sky, a sky full of holes, a world full of sinkholes, stepping left and right to dodge the obvious while missing the mines cleverly disguised as islands by a frail and treacherous subconscious, we sit here, again, past midnight, exploring old worlds again, in search of something that was lost.

Find the fumbling hand in the shadow, and grasp it, cling to it, bring it back with you, out of the sheltering dark into the light, bring its broken and neglected body into the storm, let the dry skin soak in the freezing rain, this weather is so fickle, cold then hot, and the nights are frozen and this thing, this bag of insecurities, this identity constructed from doubt and mistrust and disgust and loathing, this vessel of negativity that has hidden within it, some core, some vital secret, the seed of creation that it has swallowed up so that without it, we are dead, so we cling to its hand with the crumbling skin, we stare into its needy eyes, reassure its madness, let it feel some comfort, so that we might steal from it.

Pin ourselves wiggling to the wall, no trees for us in this blasted afterland, only stone walls, of woe or otherwise, and pinned, spreadeagled, vivisected by this cadaverous thing that has been hiding for so long, we remember this old discomfort, this torment, this psychosexual act of masochism, that opens some door within our selves. Heed the sound of hinges turning, the brush of sightless ghosts, the lick of some twisted secret buried for years, feel the shameful and frightened hand of some innocent memory turned against you by this sickly thing rescued just now by your own hand and in that torment...

Door and door and doors fling open, flooding with a golden sound, a golden dawn, and the apocalypse is worth it. A payment of blood is cheap, so much of it, so much left to give, so we pay the price, cuts and cuts and cuts, grown up scars vanishing beneath new ones, textured skin, textured soul, textured life, but you're too busy staring through the doors, at the new avenues opening up and the colors, unseen but in some vivid dream, you can no longer remember, except as an afterthought, synesthesia making you think of a scent, not wrong, but not entirely right either.

Here we are. Here we are. Here we are.

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