The Daemon never sleeps. Rests, perhaps. I should be so lucky for it to actually fall into deep slumber. Or even better, a coma. Alas, not this gnarled Beast with its fingers clutched around my brain, my heart, my stomach.
Days roll, soundless, effortless. Good ones. Strong ones.
Thoughts, clear and crisp and full of hope and opportunity, tumble on low heat.
I get dressed. I put on makeup. I do my hair. I do laundry. I dust the furniture. I sweep the floor.
How long will this last? What will be the trigger? How tightly can I grip the wheel so IT doesn’t rouse?
If I can just. . .
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