One less face.

Lolling willows slap leaves together wearily against the dazzling backdrop of the bright new horizon; blue and continuous as the shores of the richest imagination. But in the dark corners of my eye, faint outlines of twisted terrors lie. Captured there in that recess between what is real and what I create, menacing taunts are heard; chuckling sinister and goading; willing that the devil in me be freed. Gushes of crimson agony come to me piercing through the veil beyond which is my mind, a textured landscape of myriad factors of banality and belligerent disappointment. Sometimes, when even the breathing seems interesting, there issues rapturous laughter at my own failure to capitalise on an interesting thought. Fettered around my waist, these useless meat objects which drape from my chair and pool into plates below my trousers. Cumbersome and unwieldy with memories of chase. The information portal spews gelatinous knowledge of misery interlaced with themes of avarice and choirs singing worship to pelts. I watch in comatic delirium as an Indian weeps, being told he and his are to be processed into the human coagulant that swells around his shores, lamenting toxic prayers that wash away ancestry and subsume all wisdom into faceless augury. Calls fall silent. Stories become whispers, become tangled on the breeze and are lost or become convoluted and devoid of reason. The spirits that watch from behind my eyes are afraid, they tremble in the dark.