Listo H. Bedlam's Journal

scream
Wanting the silence, you woke up in silence. A wish drained the cup down to the last echo. The lips move in the mirror; the eyes have a tome of words, "Wake the fuck up!". But there is only silence. Restored to Gods making, you're on the day before the first day. Not a peep, little fucker, not a sound in this silence.
Breathing harder and harder, trying to create some distilling chord. In your head you hear a huff-puff-puffing like a porno on full blast. In the world you don't hear damn thing.
Trying to scream, but you forgot what you were screaming. Maybe a little more backbone and meaning would create a sound. But your voice is all lost in the padding.
"I wanted to say something so bad; now that I know what it is, I can't remember how to speak."
So, you're left with a scrawling. Chicken foot writtings that don't convey how you're yelling. Even the refuse in the toilet is louder than you: more pungent, at least.
Now that you've wished it, you want it all back. Just another dream that you don't want anymore.

So, the angel looked around heaven, and said "Ah, but it's lovely. Can I stay."
Paradise was granted, but at the cost that next time the angel looked around, it saw fire and more fire. When it tried to scream, it only puked and did so quietly. St. Peter stands, grinning, outside the gates. There will be no disturbing this dream. There will be no taking-back.

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