Biting at my heals.

The black dog is chasing me. Biting at my heals. Catching me. Hunting me down. I don’t think I’ll escape. He will devour me again. I don’t think he’s alone. I think the whole of the wild hunt are chasing me. Maybe they’ll catch me. I’m one of them. Maybe they want to take me home. Who am I? Who am I? Where am I headed? Where should I go? Can I go anywhere? ¬†Escape? From myself? I can’t. There’s no escaping myself. No heat. No ringing. No nothing. Drifting. Tired. I’m too tired. It’s always the same things. Outside myself. Looking in. Drifting. Songs in my head. I can’t remember them. Restlessness. The void.¬†

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