When You Die It's The Same As

What He Could Bear In The Waking World He Could Not By Night And He Sat Awake For Fear The Dream Would Return.

I Don't Know Why I Started Writing. I Don't Know Why Anybody Does It. Maybe They're Bored, Or Failures At Something Else.

When The Lies Are All Told And Forgot The Truth Will Be Their Yet.

Men's Memories Are Uncertain And The Past That Was Differs Little From The Past That Was Not.

The Blackness He Woke To On Those Nights Was Sightless And Impenetrable. A Blackness To Hurt Your Ears With Listening. Often He Had To Get Up. No Sound But The Wind In The Trees. He Rose And Stood Tottering In That Cold Autistic Dark With His Arms Outheld For Balance While The Vestibular Calculations In His Skull Cranked Out Their Reckonings.