There's distant scratching like strings on a loose violin and rain shattering against the hood of a shambling man passing me from a place I've never been.

This night seems to bring a comfortable chaos like the sound of a dying drum inside a weaning rib cage with the wind that screams through trees mimicking a wheezing child's vocal range.

Each step forward is a chant from an old god and each drop of blood is a sip from the paradigm, voices scream and hiss from the nearby fog while I climb down a mountain I've never climbed.

Bones snap and buckel while fingers curl and twist, blistering skin ***** that insects suckle and searing eyes that unfurl and wince.

There are things worse than nightmares, like an orchestra without strings or a breath without voice. Something simple to grasp but impossible to understand if you live without choice.