The Room

Time has to pass. But sometimes its so goddamn long. Sometimes it just seems to drag and drag and weigh a ton. And hang on you like a monkey. Like its going to suck the blood out of you. Or squeeze your guts out. And sometimes it flies. And is gone somewhere, somehow, before you know it was even here. As if time is only here to make you miserable. That's the only reason for time. To squeeze you. Crush you. To tie you up in knots and make you fucking miserable.

It's always the same--you get used to one thing, then it changes. Get used to another, and that changes. Over and over. Always the same. O well, the hell with it. It's not important anyway.

Time seemed stationary, yet the painful pressure of time was constantly felt.

He flowed deeper and deeper into himself, wrapped in the comforting strength of hate.

There was no escape from the past. The struggle against it only entangled him deeper in the fear of the future. There was no place for him to go. No place he could hide. No place where his enemy didnt exist. No escape from unconscious wakefulness. There was no rest.