   opprobrious nights which he remains awake cannot wear him down. forcible and almighty, his hauteur resides deep and stable in the midst of his thorax. he is the one to bring it all to an end, a solidity in his own bare palm to throttle and extract the viability of anyone his morose heart hankers to -- yet, recent nights of interminable terrors, malevolent ululations at his ears, indoctrinate him otherwise. forcible fangs, claws with ichor perfuse from gnawing at his skin, secant his neck until he is left vacant of blood and sprawls onto his damp bed -- empty of life, of psyche, of anything that keeps him compos mentis⊠naught but a husk for baleful spirits to defame. they knap his brawn and lacerate it apart piece by piece as he is situated there with no valor to move an inch -- leisurely, execute his mortal body to the grounds below for a repatriation to his predecessors. you will never get to die. every night, they swindle him, squealing their morbid / liverish merriment in his ears until those bleed along. and he wakes in the morning, more inanimate than he was the day prior. his demons scrutinize his every locomotion. you are nothing. he descends to the ground, trodden, opaque effluvium filling his lungs and suffocating him until he avows he can hear his mother's pleads from an interval:  â -- run, child, run ! -- â  albeit, no extrication. he abhors being trampled.
   and in a moment of hasty decisions as execration blurs his vision and jumbles his conscious, he strides with pique in each step to the person who engendered it all -- the person who will now, make the nightmares come to an end.
   witching hour is merely upon his back, shadows swift away from his own. his fumed agitation mantles his figure, and he crawls inside a window he recognizes just slightly too well for his own favoritism. once inside, he senses the jabbing onto his flesh ( claws clutching onto his spine and his ribcage, rending out his bones one by one ). youâll never make it out alive.   â missed me,little shit ? â   he locks eyes with a pair he's known too well, too soon, but now no amiability or fright electrifies the air between. solely, obscenity. he menaces his figure, thudding the boy to the wall until his back crashed raspingly, essentially suffices to demolish a hole in it if it wasnât so staunch.   â i came here to politely ask you to make this fucking stop. â   you donât know what you're getting yourself into. they're wrong. his voice grows and now a repine -- inflicting the affliction upon his neck with the teeth which devour his dermis once again, his own ; bare and clenched as a savage brute near its quarry. you'll never get rid of us. but he will, he has set his mind to it and so it shall be, even if the next quietus must be of the person in front of him.   â i cant take this shit anymore⊠make it stop--- nowâŠÂ ! â     /   @profiile
