Desolation

When ghostly smoke is drawing webs under the ceiling, when every sound is growing in my brain like an accelerated cancer, leaving me deaf and desperate, when motley thoughts are jumping from one point to another, and all the memories seem blurred - I only want to spit another clot of smoke out, and to leave this heartless neverland. But everytime I close my eyes - to get rid of the oppressive visionaires - they come to life furthermore... It's hard to be alive in the galleries of death, with beating human hearts impaled on blood-rusted thorns, where the spirit of Inquisition is so real, that every manifestation of genius is convicted to be infernal...

And the most horrifying in this all is that the gallery exists nowhere, but inside of myself.