Right now, I am afraid and I am alone in my panic room.
My heart beats wild with the startling jaggedness of colliding pins in a bowling alley.
There is nothing in my stark room except a clock on the wall.
And the sound of the second hand worries me because it seems to take longer in between ticks.
My stomach is wet, queasy, and tied in awkward knots like a circus balloon.
I can feel a pair of teeth eating its way out of my stomach from the inside.
My gaze looks inwards and everything appears so ambiguously exigent in there.
The trembling cold heart inside of my chest gnashes its teeth silently so no one sees.
I want to kiss you. I want my lips to touch yours, and when we pull our lips apart, I want to them to cling to one another, reluctant to depart—like new lovers. When that happens, my lips are always warmer and yours are cooler. Does that mean that I really like you a lot, or does it mean that I like you more than like me?
Oh, frightful black void, I wander perilously about in your vast rumbling bowel. What else occupies you besides infinite night and the deathlike chill that hangs about?
In this realm of plucked out eyes, the inky null is blind, and bone-chilling cold bites at my face bitterly, like unseen frost. Oh baleful circumstances, why you conspire against me to engulf me like a tomb.
I may be the most dog-bitten man in the world. I never came across a dog that did not sink its jowls into my leg and try to jerk it off at the hip socket. Even dogs that hold strong moral objections against biting make an exception for me.