Those reoccurring dreams that feel like the knees are asleep and every step is pushing through tar. It obscures the vision and makes one second guess what they see. Phantoms appear and the heart races. Those sleepy knees turn to lead and the tar to quicksand, you never stood a chance against such illusions, none of us did. The light fades as the sand rises higher, choking the throat and flooding the lungs, a sense of self preservation tries to kindle amongst the wet wood, wood soaked with fear. A blink, far too long past due remains closed as the kindle dies out, and the darkness consumes what is left.

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