He existed in the depths of nowhere. His life happened in flashes. Every moment was sudden and fleeting. It was like blacking out in a dream. His mind had been smashed like a mirror; his memories were like pictures reflecting on the jagged shards. His eyes would open to the burning beams of surgical lamps gripped by gleaming titanium claws, and the pain ran through his nervous system like an electric current, but sometimes he saw other things. Sometimes he was able to dream, and it was in the haze of his subconscious that he had any clarity. He could see himself as if he were an outside spectator. He was a tall, thin middle-aged man. A man with a face aged beyond its years. His bruised and cracked flesh looked like it had been painted on his skull. His sunken black eyes were like empty voids. His lanky frail form was covered by clothes that were as worn and tattered as he was. He lived in a room as small as his existence. The paint on the walls had all but chipped away. The woode
This is a collection of anecdotes from the fringes of reality, a tapestry stitched together from our dreams as well as our nightmares, from the fears that haunt the collective imagination. These are the symptoms of the sickness known as the human condition.