The taste of salt is dry - stretched by a kind of numbing that leaves the tongue, the mind burning.
Stretched by decades that turn to centuries, that fool the mind with seconds.
The windows that watched, the walls that stared, the floors that begged me to stop...
walking, running, crying, panicked,
wild, heavy,
tired,
restless--
restlessly spun, spinning into a web
that keeps the sun, slowly greying through the cracks-
gone like certainty
gone
like

me

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Daedalan, in the year 974 AF.