Untouched, untarnished, alone with your thoughts.
Symmetrical whispers tickle your ear.
"Tell me, what makes you the way that you are?"
"Tell me, do you mean anything at all?"
You're in agony when the clock strikes twelve.

You cannot remember how you came here.
You see your face reflected off the wall.
And yet, is it you? Perhaps, perhaps not.
A dangerous cold aches into the walls.
You look to your left, the wallpaper peels.
You look to your right, and are licked with flame.

You're wrapped up in the billows of it all.
You taste the chocolate pouring from the mug.
You hide from the stares, peering through the glass.
The covers a fortress around your face.
The air grows stale, then warm, then sweltering.
You whip it away and embrace the ink.