there is nothing here

you know it is all in your head.

your head just has a masochistic way of making everything real, making the fear palpable.

you are blinded by your own brain, 

there is a dense cloud of fog that has just been growing since you were born;

the tendrils wrap around every one of your organs,

constrict your airways,

delete every thought passing by until there is nothing. 

my birthday backwards is yadhtrib ym. 

do  (or don't) with that what you will  (or won't). 

storyboard me. and this time, write a better fucking ending.