and the psychiatrist, directed you, "Go there.
But go alone.
Meet the demon."
I hate him for that.
It was too much, for you,
atremble with nightmares
alone at the end of your life
in the middle of your life.
I run my hand, here now,
along this brittle wallpaper.
I feel lives, and ours, flake away
under touch. But that is not
the scary part.
Ahead is darkness
never-ending,
just there
or pulling us closer.
In time, we all enter, seeing nothing,
not even our own boundaries of self
sense: presence
We can hear him
breathing.
At some point
Erubus will speak.
We wait for that.
There is nothing else to wait for.
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