Look up, the clock ticks in response . . .
And my paper only half full . . .
At least I'm positive about something . . .
Tick Tock.

Rest my head on my piece,
Low music playing on the radio . . .
Don't wanna wake the neighbors . . .

I'll rest my eyes . . .
Just a little bit . . .

I throw myself against the bed, praying that the two church pews hold the mattress. Digging myself into the sheets as a refuge to my sins, drunk and on a whim I tossed the last lighter out the window. I have now begun to scribble vigorously on a notepad, papers piling up as high as the coffee cups near my makeshift bed. These ides don’t work, stories thrown out faster then they are jotted down.

My knuckles hurt, or at least my brain is telling me they hurt, perhaps the pain is as fictional as the girl staring through the window at me. The circus had been in town for two weeks, playing in the corner of my room as the clock ticks past four. Four ‘o clock the circus dies, wilt away into the wall, perhaps they will come back again tomorrow.

The moon was in the street and I couldn’t remember the last time I slept. A thousand pigeons rattled from the rooftops, breaking air as two thousand wings flapped out of time and into the air. I sat back down on the café corner and saw Satan in my coffee and God in the cold white china of the cup. The image said to me, ‘it’s all going to be fine, the king abides man’. If God and Satan could get on alright in a coffee cup, well that gave me a little hope. I balanced a cigarette on the side of the ashtray and watched the street cobbles shake as late night wakers and wanderers made their way up the street.

Whose mind is the quicker;
Who shall be the first to fall,
Or shall either fall at all?
I say that with dimming eyes, after all.

I stand still.
Hand me my demise-
On a silver platter.
I glance at you, I see you fall.
Dead.
I could be God.
Then I turn-
A graceful mirror . . .
If looks could kill-
I wake up.
Purgatory never gave such a sweet dream . . .

It is a dangerous world out there. Every single day many people were killed. Those foolish enough to let people know of their name or see their face, that is.

Thoughts can kill, as the old saying had said. For centuries mankind had thought it was a mere figurative speech about how ideas are infectious and how ideas can kill a man.

Little did they know it was meant to be literal. How the men of ancient world knew was besides the point. In year two thousand and eight, a man suddenly discovered his ability to harm, or kill, a man simply by thought. By year two thousand and ten there were more, a lot more. By year two thousand and fifteen, it was discovered that actually all humans had the ability.

Here I sit and wait and wonder
where a stray thought could blunder
I'd more impressed with empathy
if I didn't worry that it could kill me

"Mirror, Mirror
On the wall
Who's the fairest
Of them all?"

The mirror didn't answer. It never answered. The Queen was still positive it spoke to her mother. She remembered that night so clearly from her childhood. The night was heavy with fog, and it felt like the palace was floating in a cloud, far above the earth. The Queen was only a tiny Princess then, four years old. She'd had a vivid nightmare and wanted to cuddle in bed with her mother and father. Her father, the King, was not in their chambers. Only her mother, the Queen was there.

The Princess paused in the doorway. Her mother was standing in front of the only mirror in the room. It was such a strange and eerie silence, her mother so very still. It seemed an eternity before anyone took a breath.

Once upon a time there was a young girl called little Red Riding-Hood. She was so named because she always wore a long red cloak with a lovely big hood.

Little Red Riding-Hood was a wonderful and obedient child, with a great love for her family, so when one day her mother asked that she take a cake and pot of butter to her sick grandmother little Red Riding-Hood agreed without question.

She popped on her cloak and pulled up the hood, tucking her long brown hair out of the way before she picked up the basket that contained the cake and butter. Just before she left the house, little Red Riding-Hood gave her mother a kiss and a wave goodbye, and set off on the long road to grandmother's cottage.

It is like a heartbeat that comes and goes, one by one they walk to the other side, it is fading away and nothing more on their side are left.