A calm winter night.
The street lights at the window sill did not seem to embrace my room as I was seated beyond my desk.
The unlit screen still seemed bright for when it carved its image in my eyes,
The glass display shattering in millions of shards piercing through my paper skull.
An etymology of communication, the relation of electrical currents through my crevasses,
The empty eyesockets in my skull ridden with blood, pus and ink, oozing out of my empty casket on what remained of the abandoned framework in the chair, corroded to unidentifiable bits of gore
A steaming pile of putrid mass desecrating the serenity of the chamber,
decorating the walls with mould and algae
A murky portrait indeed.
Tangling vines carress the oxidated heaps of sticks and bones, they feel it, they long for it
Mutilating the sheer remains of contorted steel and ivory as the ink chants its final tune.
It feels unfinished
