And as I look on into the night and contemplate the sanity of my soul - this being that rips away at the flesh to devour the tender veins and race through time and telescopes to see the stars of darkness in the eye that burns being open, without the gratitude of tears as the suffocation returns, and the ringing in the ears screams of times gone by and another blackness ahead where swallowing is no longer a reflex, but instead, while the thumping of the heart grows louder and the muscles clench in pain the impulse to purge is there in the deep-seated knowledge that something far worse will come again and there is no defense against the monsters who attack brutally in the sleep, the unconscious, subconscious winding its paths of a trilogy of labyrinths quenching the thirst of the blood-drinking, bone-crushing devil who haunts in disguises and drains the life-line dry. © 1997 by Morgan Wolfe