Decay

My body feels very, very old. My throat is dry. My head feels hollow and cold and dank. Still the world turns, and threads are spun and unraveled and frayed, all in a whirling, neverending cycle. What good serves howling when the sound is not heard, when the air is thick and black and bitter as tar? How does one look away and live pretending the darkness is far away when every turn of the head reveals a shadow? Time--barbed and thorned and boiling--rubs against my skin with each movement. Every second is a jolt of pain, every sound a roaring blast through my head. When does it end? Completely, utterly, and truly end?