Hebetude

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Rain clawed at the window panes. The moon cowered behind darkened masses of vapour. Sheer darkness foreshadowed the nightmares that would intoxicate my mind as I finally buckled to lethargy and allowed myself to rest. This was my life now. Awake briefly, once each week, before subsiding to the agony of sleep once again.

Each period of comatose hebetude brought a new nightmare; a new piece of paraphernalia to add to the table of the psychotic surgeon who plagued me with the disease of immutable fear. Sleep was my surgeon, and I was it's patient, sedated, trapped inside a state of incapacitation.

And I had once again heeded to it's lust for my pain.

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