Rat faced monsters. Whispering foul scented dreams. Commands that i ignore, with effort, and i hear them in the walls. Hear them in my brain, they scurry about and draw long dirty nails over worn wooden supports. That tearing sound in my mind makes me wince. i cringe and i hear them now in the ceiling. They speak to me in a tainted language that i can't understand and wish no part of. They have secret plans, plans that involve me, criminal plans that require my own degradation. Dirty filthy plots, whose value is not entirely without merit, and yet are of such a disgusting composition that they insult the very fabric of nature. They nag and nag and nag and they slowly wear me down, cunning little fucks, mixing lies with utter and simple truths, blasphemies with hope. They are, however, a little extreme. The things that they would do to you are beyond anything i could allow myself to be a part of. i'm doing you a favour really, by being their pawn, as the torturous deeds i may enact on their behalf are nothing compared to what is possible. it all starts with a tiny incision. i now push things under your skin and although infection is not the purpose of this, it will occur. The oozing pustules get in my way, to be honest, yet i endure, i overcome. At this point i'm a little too committed, i'm too involved to stop now, might as well see the plan through, might as well see if they have a point after all. Everything becomes corrupted in time, it is true, everything settles down and looses its original meaning. They snicker at me, tool that i am. i'm not proud, not really happy with the situation and you don't seem to have any sympathy for me. You think this is all about you, but its not. You are nothing, remember? Haven't i yelled that enough times in your face for you to comprehend? This isn't about you! This isn't about you! it's about THEM and THEiR plans, their plots. The glass and nails and bone that i've inserted into you is their statement their proclamation and although we can all agree that you are involved, a better term may be 'related', because you merely represent the canvas, who you are specifically doesn't fucking matter. This isn't about you. And you'll be fucking dead soon enough (although maybe not soon enough for you) And then once that's over, perhaps we can move towards some sort of conclusion, and by "we" i mean "me", me and that fucking world that i despise. it'll ignore everything though, always does and i've tried to explain it to the rats, but they never fucking listen either, just looking blankly and make those horrible sounds, just egging me on. No one will listen to what this is really trying to say, not you, canvas, not the world, they only see the horror and you, the agonizing pain. Why why why am i doing this? Why? This is the question, so simple and so hard to ask and seek explanation. Not just seeking who or what to blame, but real meaning? And doesn't it all seem pointless after all?