Sometimes I’ll rouse, in darkest night, to a twilit form, bending over me, so closely we’re sharing the same still air. I never startle, I somehow know, even before I’m completely awake, that it’s not mortal.

This malevolent force stalks time worn halls like disease. It thrives on inertia and stress, it drinks in fatigue like a vampire devours blood and slowly chews on fragile-hopes until they’re desiccated and smell like rotten flesh.

This death like thing waits for each of us, in tedium, as danger hides in shadow - growling with sullen impatience to smother us.

It’s name is failure. Sometimes, I’m so afraid.