Fingers strum against the brass metal strings of my fathers guitar, plucking and grazing as I look down at the the small pin prick collected in a bunch in my left elbow crook. It had hurt, but that’s the point of being human. Perhaps the soul’s purpose for living is to feel. I still remember the sting as metal collided with tender skin, tender muscle. I focus on the pain, the only thing that is real to me anymore. An old familiar sting, tearing a hole in myself as i try to kill it all away…But. . .

Sorry Hill

1885 - 3:30am

Lightening illuminates the upper story bedroom in a sickening crack. He swore the world had split in two, only it did not, for it was only the rising of darkness in the dead of night. With a crack of an eye, the old oak tree reaches a hand steadily across the wall to the mans sleeping partner, grasping with eery intention. The man scrubs a hand over his sharp features, slick with sweat from his rude awakening. . .

Sorry Hill

1885 - 3:30am

Lightening illuminates the upper story bedroom in a sickening crack. He swore the world had split in two, only it did not, for it was only the rising of darkness in the dead of night. With a crack of an eye, the old oak tree reaches a hand steadily across the wall to the mans sleeping partner, grasping with eery intention. The man scrubs a hand over his sharp features, slick with sweat from his rude awakening. . .