Kill Me.

How could you ever sleep with the mad banshee wailing that surrounds the Agony, but not even the body, no, even the thought, the mental presence, remembrance and whatever, whatever.

How could you sleep through that noise, how could you think.

The smallest mention and innocence be damned, off it goes, here it comes, jackal screams and hyena cries, every kind of disruptive, beastly, unwanted sound—

But not even sound, more so the dead weight of perpetual presence, the clamp-down and choke-out of sensory independence, of sensory indulgence. All is crushed, all is confined by the toxic swirl of an Agony’s everlasting domination.

You let it in, this is what you get.

You have to let it in.

And you do, though you know the past and can predict the future. All of this, algorithmic.

Breaking away in desperate attempts to regain some balance, swearing them off, turning away—but always somehow, at some later point, giving in, coming back, opening up.

And an Agony will always be willing to service you, to both create a void and be its occupant.

All the power, all the power of the Agony.