Worms. Fingers. Worms and fingers. They won't stop crawling out of my back. I yell for them to stop, but it doesn't stop. I just feel them writhe across my pale, twitching body. It's never going to stop. It's never going to stop. Nothing is here. Nothing is present. Nothing will ever be sacred again.
He's awakening dreaming. Limitless yet bounded, choking as the worms crawl out from the gaping mouth, you can't help but feel it's you.
But he is I. When were they not? Her impostor, a lonely man atop a hill, shaking gently in need of warmth and sustenance. A bottle covered in water because the top has already been reached, but you continue to pour more water onto it. A naked man, hunched over, feasting on the dead rats in the corners of the room. His body is contorted to reach all ends of this small room which he inhabits. A boy cowers in fear in the corner of his room, staring up at the man who stands in the centre of it. Dancing slowly in the night with a bag full of your own acceptance