þriðjudagur, mars 12, 2013


You have nothing to say to me.

You never have, but I am less patient now, less willing to grant you polite audience.

I have heard your incoherent roar before, the rushing sound of thick water against the eardrum as the top of the throat slams shut. You have filled my nighttime head before with mad chattering and dreams of annihilation.

I cannot stop you. You will rage and tear through my world and the days and nights of my loved ones, but I will grant you no more of my life, waking and sleeping, than I must.

You have nothing to say to me, to anyone, and never have. 

You may go to hell.

Hvaðan þið eruð