The ants have ceased.
I'm so thankful they've stopped crawling over my ankles.
For now.
That only mean's the night is coming.
I can hear it.
My veins hear it.
Synesthesia.
The oncoming darkness will do that to you.
Rather, the inhabitants of said oncoming darkness will do that to you.
The ants know it.
They've known it.
True children of the earth.
What a farce.
I can't help but think it sometimes.
What else is there to do but think?
There's nothing out here in this paved desert.
This cracked, bleached, scarred, whored, motherfucked desert.
I want to bash my face in it.
I want to smash my teeth against it.
Let the blood flow over its cracked face.
I want it to know that I'm fundamentally intrinsically inherently different than it.
I won't say I am better than it because I'm not.
Otherwise it wouldn't surround me.
Otherwise I wouldn't worry about the oncoming night.
The tygers will be here soon.
I see their eyes glitter from the reflections of the dust.
I hear their shrieks slitting the horizon.
The banshees crawling against the earth.
Click Click Click goes their nails against the earth.
I know I'm not better.
I look around and see the scrapes of fingernails against the ground.
The very thought of it makes me want to vomit.
The sun is a sphere of blood.
An eye into hell.
Maybe I will vomit.
It's a defense mechanism for some animals.
Puts their scent into the air.
Marks their territory.
Piss and shit and vomit.
Perhaps I;ll drown myself in it.
All of it will dry against the sun and the bleached skin of this godforsaken land.
They are coming.
No use in denying that simple, undeniable fact.
They are coming.
The sun is hidden behind the lampposts now.
I wish they would turn on.
But they haven't turn on in millenia.
Or was it minutes?
Where am I?
Where the fuck am I?
In the Valley of the Vampires and Lepers.
In the Valley of the traffic lights and construction cones and speed limits.
In the Valley of infinite parking lots, where lost children wander forwards and backwards, ripping and clawing their eyes out, reciting the rituals of the fast food pagans, howling like rabid wolves further and further into the blazen threshold.

Childless earth.
Protect me from the night.


For here there be tygers.