Potential.
It is always said to be right there...
Hidden behind the disproportionate layers of.
filth.
That had collected over the years.
Incessantly knocking.
******.
As a new layer begins to dry.
Yet the sound reverberates through.
Chipping away at what little security was left.
Taunting
Tainting.
One could grow mad.
With little else to distract the mind.
For with every strike.
Would there be an equal.
Fall.
just as expected.
Demanding a new sacrifice each time.
With blood and sorrow.
Only the well has long since been dry.
And for whatever reason.
The bucket is sent down.
To retrieve more of this.
Nothingness.
For insanity.
Is the only thing in abundance.
Here.