12:43 a.m. - 2007-09-08
Dementia
It's not the fist to my face and it isn't the priest with the hammer to my head; no, it's the thoughts attacking my brain. The fight is not against bone or flesh, it's not against the rest; it's against every torment gone undead. Skull broken, extract the grey turned red, psyche collapsed, the aftermath of the apocalypse. Gods and Demons alike, collide and crash, crumble beneath the dust, there's no defining line. Clawed open wide, open to all, unprotected from the self. Undoubtly the worst kind of end, that one that comes from inside the head, dementia.