I am reading this book “this hideous strength’
After every other word, and every other page I feel weary yet I am not drunk
My muscles feel weak and my blood burns like acid yet I have not been a thrall.
These sentries and entities occupy too much of my time
What I have seen can never be told in time. And uncaptured they leave entrails of myth and mystery, best described by blatant lie.

Should a liar ever tell a tale that matches the truth? What becomes of the Liar?

Melancholy me, I am engulfed by waifs and scarlet desires.
Demons and tortures
Awake, tired but not spent
Full of will but no desire,
In chaos implicit the galactic pageantry is explicit
In the distance a sun rises, flame and fire uncontrolled but within its realm is a content child. .my sun is not this way, it hurts me and drains and no one can see. I burn most fiercely not for joy but as the driest wood under a spark from forgotten meals, and unneeded.