there are no devils on your shoulder or strange men outside your window. there are no monsters or shadows, not to extends that you can fathom. they will always belong on your side of the glass, right behind your back.
you are your own wrong choice, the impression of your hatred, of the stone that bruised you, knocked you down and folded you up.
I? I am the healers potion, the spider's venom, you mother's caressing hand. i'll make surface the bleeding open wound that marks the open passage to the deepest, darkest corners of your own insides. i'll bring my breath and my sheets, i'll bring my fever and disease.
