I can feel the startling bright pinpricks exploding in the patchwork of exposed skin that is detached from me. Descending from the madman who grimaces over me, I feel the steel eye of the pin through the resilient opacity of skin, fat and flesh. Descending and withdrawing in maddening rhythm. Pale pink reddens to fine rubescent threads drawn out after, like the filaments of a flesh pink flower.

Stalking myself, wearing a path through old worn out carpet in the pale blue light of pre-dawn. Bright enough to write in, not bright enough to blind memory's painful gaze. I pant like a wearisome Lady Macbeth, wringing my hands, carbonated through emotions, gradually going flat.