Two men watch me in my sleep. By the wall, he stares on emotionless. By the ceiling lamp, he glares down, but he isn't always there. Waiting for a return, but why all the worry. Troubled is the heart somebody has taken what it wants, what is. Spiralling a trap. Lost in twirls of dark thoughts, dark feelings, and dark beings. I wiggle my toes, kiss my arms, to bring me back to life. To remind that death escapes life, but forfeits experience. This existence is my own. Trap in a spiral. We repeat, constantly, round and around we go, far, near, beyond, further, yet we return. Something that is taught, or hasn't been taught, how used to set ways, the nurture of our existence. How late is no turning back?
