Slowly depositing the, almost empty, beer can, the writer begins to write these lines and pauses for thirty seconds. The amount of time required to renew his fuel...

He returns and swiftly resumes the enraged stroking of the white keys. How could a writer begin his journey in overloaded emotions, visions and feelings? As a mind slowly drifting into a perverse and twisted reality, he chooses the post-modern way of being conscious of the writer himself, in his short-lived novel, slowly twisting that reality into the surreal nightmare that it is. He continues to type while closing his eyes, deprived of the primary sense, he begins to listen to a slight whisper. A throbbing sound, more like a pulse locked on a single tone.

And so the journey starts upon the exploration of that sound. His trained analytical ear, deviates from the distinguished elements and can't help but notice a slight evolution as the sound is not stable. It begins to twist into a form. A melody of long lost memories and feelings of innocence. Now he can discern the melody itself. It sounds like a canary. And the mind floods with images, with perceptions of it's shape and colour. Purple and locked inside a silver cage. A cage encased with semi-valuable gems, aquamarine and topaz. And then he meets the eye, sad, deprived of everything but the never-ending song. The cage expands and engulfs the entirety of his existence which begins to blend with the form of the tormented eye. The bird yearns to sing a different tone but it can't. Chains are flowing from it's limply legs. Legs, shackled on the cage's axis. The colours around him begin to falter and change into shades of endless grey. A grey wasteland of refusal and subjugated, self-induced lies.

What is that sound that, so arrogantly, tries to invade my self-proclaimed truth? Oh, look!
It's something different! It is a sparkling sound image, a waveform with short peaks equivalent to the wave length of photons. But can they pierce the membranes on my eyes? Travel to the optical nerve and explode in an ecstatic, tribal-drum induced trance? No. It is just a sound too. And as it came, it goes, fleeting, unnerving. The sense of self fluctuates again, in an influx of colours and lights that slowly get drained by the achromatic, grey wasteland. And it is not the tones of grey that hurt...
It is the absence of colour.

Swimming into the endless grey sea, he begins to transform like insect larvae. He peels off his skin, countless times, until it hurts no more. Until the skin suits the wearer and the bearer of truths untold. Now, where he stands, time is of no importance. His will is strong and old. It transcends emotion and mortality. It's primal and archegonous. It bares no specific form and essence but it's very essence, is one of deceit. Like a newly hatched butterfly, he flies from one decayed flower to the next. Seeking. But what is his mind fixed upon? What is this strong, undefiable torrent that strikes open the endless ocean? What is this sheer force of Will fixed upon? So ancient...so determined...

Claws emerge from the tranquillity of the landscape. Bitten and charred. Agnostic and defunct. Like a seer without a vision. Like a prophet that gazes into the strands of things to come, no more. Blind. Famished of all that is rejuvenating and worthy. Of all that break nothingness into it's primal elements. And here, where the vibrations are strong, he reluctantly chooses to camp for the night. The endless night to come and fill the almost empty twilight of the dusk.

And there he grows strong. Leeching off his surroundings. Absorbing. Assimilating. Conjuring nightmares of old. Calling out in the wild for things untold. Barking at the moon like a rabid wolf. Intricate geometries. He begins to chant with an intoned voice. "Consume. Consume. Consume." Ad infinitum. Gluttony is now his new name. Replacing the old one that was Lust.

And thus...he begins to drift...among the sounds of squeaking crows. He drifts and drifts and drifts...into his, now embraced, madness.