I see them in the shifting shadows, in the wet-black reflections on the cobbled streets. They whisper my name with the wind’s hollow sigh, and my own breath is a thief, stealing the air that should be silent. Is it my disease that sharpens the senses, or does the disease simply peel away the mundane—the world for all its dull normalities—to reveal what truly hides beneath?
The clock work’s measured tick, a hammer on my skull, pounds time into my head, and I pray for the silence that would be my grave. But silence is a myth. The noise grows and grows. It is the rustling of a thousand purple curtains, the scrabbling of a rat in the walls, the beating of a watch enveloped in cotton, which is to say, it is the beating of a heart.
One heart bleeds into the next, its rhythm, the drumbeat of my insanity. The terror is uncontrollable when you hear all things
in the heavens and on the earth—and in hell. The weight on my soul with the memory of a vulture.
Or! Perhaps, I am the watcher
Interesting proposition.
Perhaps we’re all watchers but few realize this.
Well presented.