From insomnia and the sensitivity towards the slightest sounds, to being sucked into a deep somnolence and a dream my repeated attempts to claw out of couldn't save me from; wrapped in a shroud of emotions and colour and base desires engulfing me, having its way with me, before spitting me out to sudden wakefulness again, confused, with still a foot in the dream world.

And I wake up horny and hungry, the vague feeling of loss of those canines against my tongue, with the heady flavour of madness and sex and filth still in my mouth, a somewhat bloody coppery tang that is almost reassuringly familiar.

This is probably a manifestation of the manic upturn of my bipolar cycles that I am currently experiencing, part and parcel of the over-active mind and the severely reduced sleeping hours; it feels like a mind-fuck of sorts, by suppressed ideas and thoughts and concepts I thought long shelved and forgotten.

They infiltrate my mind and body and live briefly as I dream them, and then they demand to be breathed life via textual realisation, and I am slave to their wishes.

This is a silent carnival, with grotesque clowns and strange side-shows, and the undercurrent of wrongness permeating the entire circus grounds. We were warned by the trees, they told us to run. The birds, the vines, the leaves, they chirruped and murmured to us, beseeching us not to stay long. They called to us in our slumber; we woke up with terror in our hearts already fully dressed for escape from this strange chamber of horrors we weren't yet to see. We ran, you see, avoiding those clawing things we couldn't quite make out, understanding that the wrongness extended to the elongated form of these misshapened things lurking in dark places.


That was a vague memory a life-time ago. It makes no sense, yet means something important, I somehow understand.

We hunt in pairs, a primal desire driving us. He nests above the filthiest toilet cubicles I've seen in a long time - they stir in me a memory of a school I might or might not have been a student in, maybe in a prior incarnation. While I step out lightly, he watches the prey. An unsuspecting man, somehow uneasily sensing my mate's close proximity, looks up, just to be snatched up by lightning quick arms and legs, too many to be human appendages. He is carefully broken and prepared, and I walk in with another human cattle, and as she screams at the sight of his bloating, rapidly-liquifying corpse, I hungrily chew off chunks of her soul, tasting her inside out.

And this is how it is. On flesh and terror and life and sex, we feed.

(A voice in my head whispers, Langoliers, and as I rip into this meal a half-remembered scene out of a movie I remember to be of eating things briefly forms in my head. I shrug it off and resume my gastronomical frenzy.)

The stinking filth of human excrement surrounds us, not made better by the webbing he has spun, and we consume those we have brought here, absorbing the deluge of emotion emanating from them as they expire, and a sensation of sexual arousal fills us. It is a carnal need awakened, yet not fulfilled, and soon I find myself wandering again, searching for another to taste.


This building of glass and metal seems to be a hotel of some sort. I do not like it. Its sterility and impersonal modernity feel imposingly... cold. I am a creature of visceral impressions and sensations, and this place just leaves me chilled. But then I see him, and I begin to burn white-hot. He is beautiful, he is everything in a man I want to fuck and possess, he is something every fibre of my being screams for.

It begins not as a romantic affair - he is my master, he demands of my acquiescence, he fucks me or watches as he puts me into more and more situations of diverse perversities. I do not mind, because I am burning fever-pitch, and each and every filling of my orifices by those random people is a welcome respite from that hunger. I live only for the sensations his burning gaze infects me with.

There is affection in his soul though, for this strange, ravenous pet he has somehow adopted, all mystery, breasts, legs and blood-red lips. He does not see the darkness lurking on the fringes. I will keep him from it as long as possible.

(Interjection: Affection? something in me softly questions, amused, interrupting this narration of my story. We show no such emotion towards each other, only raw need and the basest yearnings. That word, my dear, is one of the final vestiges of your humanity.)


My mate is back. We consume my master, my body shuddering in pleasure as I sink my teeth into each aphrodisiac bite. He is deliciously decadent, his flesh is orgasm, and I recall our last moments together as he was buying a gift for me. He was so sweet to me then. He is still sweet, now.


We are in a huge airport terminal, watching people go past, scurrying on their own way like so many busy little ants. I am aroused, but not hungry; our appetites have mellowed to a dully aching reminder. We are not here to hunt as much as to just watch.

An adorable young boy and his father walk past, and take the nearest escalator. The child is well-behaved, and the father calmly lugs along a huge piece of luggage larger than his offspring. We watch as they meet up with what we take to be the boy's mother, joyfully, and we walk away, feeling a strange contentment at watching a complete family unit work so well together.

Those people, they are also beings like us, or harbour the seeds of evolution into creatures not dissimilar to us, at least.


One day, we might die for our desires - but for now, there is so much to feel, so much pleasure to be eaten, so much to submerge ourselves in.


As I finish penning the contents of the dream that has so perturbed me, disturbed me, another wave of lethargy hits me, and I feel my eye-lids fluttering in protest of the sleep I know is about to befall me. The dreams are sucking me back into their viscous vortex again, and I am powerless to fight it.

But then more words and details begin to trickle into my mind, and gradually build into a cacophony of thoughts I am compelled to commit to text, and I scramble to jot down random key phrases of those ideas before I completely go under.


For You, Lovingly

You find her sprawled face-down, naked, in front of your gate.

Her back has been carefully flayed open - there is a T-shaped incision across her shoulders, and from the base of her neck to her lower back, the skin and flesh has been peeled back neatly to expose her spine. It almost looks as if her skin were just a suit she was wearing, albeit one with its back unzipped.

Despite its violation, the corpse is almost fastidiously unmessy. There is no pooled, sticky blood around it or on it, no smears of bodily fluids, no leakages, and none of her viscera are spilling out of that arrangement. Almost as if she were meticulously dissected, bled-dry, cleaned, and then set up in front of your house for your viewing pleasure.

You are reminded of the very fresh sashimi you had once, on a trip to Japan - a very live fish was seized from an aquarium, swiftly sliced up neatly, then presented to you beautifully arranged on a plate, with its gasping head as part of the composition. It almost feels as if the body of the girl in front of you was placed here in this state, in a fashion not very unlike the preparation of that meal.

Repulsed yet unable to look away, your gaze falls on her visage. Her face is as beautiful as it has always been, the make-up on it artfully applied, masking the rigors of death on it. Her eyes are wide open, her expression that same cold detachment that has always intrigued you, infuriated you. Only her eyes no longer flash ice-cold, but a dullness you understand to be a sign that life has already fled her body.

You know that if she were still around to witness this spectacle, she would be more amused than horrified at this desecration of her body, cynically morbid as she always was. As she was the last time you saw her, bruised, bleeding and battered from your violence, pinned beneath your body, smiling coldly at your blind madman's rage.

You can almost see the sneering twist of her lips, hear the delicious irony in her voice as she primly wishes you a very merry Christmas.

Not quite the sort of unwrapping of a gift that you quite expected.

Ho, ho, ho.



We grieve today. Tomorrow we pretend we forget yesterday's tears. By the day after there's nothing left to weep over.

How convenient.



I need some solitude, a moment's of silence, away from those tired glances and unspoken assurances that hold no weight.

I want to be alone. I don't want conversation. I don't want those words of kindness offered in place of the inability for real action.

I want some clarity of mind that all that cacophony of voices and thought can't offer me.



No postings, no Facebook, no MSN, no Skype.

Streamyx is being a bitch lately.

Be back soon once the connection's less temperamental.