The void between snow-covered floor and a cracking ceiling, a dim echo of statues.
I move forward in my stifling black shoes.
Clawing through the crowd of my own making,
They shout at me. Some begging, some shaking.
Crying as I embrace Kafka before shoving myself away.
Traversing a mob, for I am never content to stay.
Yet I look back, screaming my throat till grotesque decay.
Suddenly, I crash into Sartre with my carrion soul.
My trickling tears bombarding Beauvoir; my extant corpse never whole.
Picking myself up, stave cutting into my paws, I continue through.
Locking eyes with Dazai, I begin to pursue.
Seeing my broken cage, he rips an ensanguined bone from my chest.
Pausing in the mass of figures, I track it as it's thrown. A new quest!
Finally I stop, blood marbling my fur,
Too pained and defeated to keep forcing my passage.
Resting at the feet of another, I look up from within the sea and bark, "Sir?"
Swallowing the last remnant of meat on my rib, Cioran glances down at the derealised dog's damage.
Succumbing to the blood loss, dulcet whimpers of pleading, I enter the arms of my darkness.
Then I wake, the Summer heat chapping my lips.
Their last whispered wisdoms haunting my eyes as I view from desuetude, trapped within my carcass.
Strewn across my bedroom floor, a distraught mess of books and half-finished scripts.
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