Ah words, the things I wield. The things I fear. Longing to forge the perfect weapon. A weapon of my own thought and blood. Never strong enough to beat back the darkness that welcomes me so easily.
Creatures most fierce chase me there. Arms reach out to welcome me to a place I wish not to go. They promise me comfort but at the price of my words. They demand that I lay down my weapon and accept them as my masters.
I lash out but my weapon is weak. My thoughts and deeds unworthy. Restless sleep punishes my failure.