I live in a vast and reeking mire, dirt, dust and filth all around me.
Storms, howling winds rage ceaselessly. Rusting metal encircles me; lifeless hulks rise from sharp stones extending to a horizon of blood,
a grotesque skyline, cityscape of tragedy.
I sleep on a bed of splintered glass, a pillow of steel; in my slumber
I know dreams of illusory futures, of pasts that never were, unconsciousness without rest. Time died I know not when.
Hope gives birth here; this place gnaws it, grinds it up, tears it apart. Butchered shreds of flesh, rough, disfigured and dead, drape this land; lumps of regurgitated meat, offal, bleeding remnants of dreams litter the ground, a putrid carpet of desolation. Who dares hope here, who dares dream? Imbecile! Here a heart still beating, clinging to dismembered life; here a brain still pulsing, perceiving what will never be.
That crimson horizon, narrow, low, frames a claustrophobic sky. Days are sweat-laden, wilting, burning; here there is no water, only tears. No flowers grow here; these canes tear my flesh. A blazing tyrant enthroned above violates the ground around me; beaten, earth begs for quarter.
A blistered, barren terrain shimmers; I want the sky to be dark. I shiver, the nights are cold.
I see a thousand eyes gazing down, glinting, icy as the sable sky.
I hear whispers in my mind:
"You will be my slave or you will be my corpse."
"Ah, delicious! My lovely, living cadaver!"
"We will rummage through your bowels."
Where are my friends? Where is my family? They, too, endure solitary mires? Or recline seduced in the realm of lies. No one crosses the river, enters these gates; no one shares this stinking, miserable existence.
I have only the dead. We sleep together.