I draw the shades when appointed and lumber before sleep, where every night I cut my wrists and bleed into my imagination. There’s a war waged there I correspond to and fore. The me voice tells me things I don’t want to hear and his council of cuckoos mimic taunt me while I look for pieces of my argument. When I wake I die a little anyway. Early morning emptiness, embracing alms of broken bread with my parasitic cohorts and their slumber driven drivel rambling docile replays of last night’s torments. Daylight grants me recess and I listen less.