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Everyday when I wake up I wonder if I'm dead. I wonder if an anonymous stranger has broken into my house and murdered me. I wonder if we've been nuked. I wonder if I'm heaven and I wonder if I've spawned wings. But as usual I wake up in hell. Exactly the same as the preceeding day, with the exception of smudged eyeliner and hair as messy as a psycho ward patient. I force myself to stand, to feel the carpet beneath my toes. A sure reminder that I am still here, I am not dead yet, and my bedroom floor hasn't been ripped down to expose the pits of death below. My bedroom is my sanctuary, my abyss to let my imagine fly. To arrange my posters in need for my mood. Tf there is no pile of clothes scattered across the floor, then I must be dead, or you have the wrong room. To step into my sleeping sanctum is to step into my mind. My mind being a molotov cocktail waiting to seek a flame. You'll step across the line, thus starting the timer to your demise. Then as the countdown drawes near, you'll run. Run to the horizon never to return. Don't reach for your belongings don't think of looking back. The end is near, there is no time for regret. But death itself is nothing, it's what follows that is truly terrifying. In the last moments of my sweet insanity I'll whisper to you a warning;





Escape the aftermath.