My undying and infinite being is apportioned a looping sequence in technicolour replay and technicolour horror. I cannot stop dreaming this mad dream, like a morbid and surreal terror flick, scripted by the occult hands of the Illuminati. I am pinioned in pain and glitching like a stuck record. The neon signs flash past in my peripheral vision as I doze in the back of the limousine, my being groggy from codeine and my soul in seething disarray. I look up at the silver clouds in yearning for a confidante to share my excoriating pain, but their steely silence spells only stark loneliness and the heavy pall of perennial war. I strive for the memory of love but my senses sing only torment and the garbled spectres of a sullen sky.
