What is he laughing at? Is it the mud? Is it the blood? Regardless, madness flows and turns this ditch into a creek of hallucinations. His ghastly laughter is lost among the dead leaves. The creep is back, lurking behind these eyes, with tickling death wishes, a masochistic grin while he tells us we're on our last days on Earth. "So make'em count, dumbass!" He's light in his words, heavy in his need. We feel him clawing away the sanity, singing lullabies, wooing us to his ways. And we yearn for it. I yearn for it. The want, the necessity, the blood boiling out through your skin, dragging me whole with it. I wish to wish. I want to want.