Crazy Dust

I hear her. Down the hall. Screeching like a howler monkey, and chances are she's flinging her own feces at the wall... or eating them. Not that it would look much different than her "baked sausages" experiment the other day. I'm tired of her. I abhor her. I while away my time thinking of ways to kill her and get away with it. Self-defense plea would probably work much better than the "she's a waste of skin" defense, unless they'd ever met her. If they had, they'd award me with a big shiny medal and hold a ticker-tape parade in my honour, for doing what God's too cowardly to do Himself.

Yeah. Crazy dust. It must be in the air. I feel it slowly finding its way past the follicles in my nose, and working its way into my lungs. They burn with insanity, each breath making them burn hotter and brighter. All of me burns with insanity. I feel as if I will be consumed. Flames lick at my insides as they search for a way to escape. Flames start to find the cracks in my skin, the pores, the flaws... it has to escape. I can't contain it any longer.

Then I will fade. Become as one I am surrounded by. In my insanity I will find my sanity, and tread upon the oceanside of Bacchus's home. I will revel in the excesses, and shimmer like the maenad of old.