2nd Sunday - Entry 2

So, as you all know I have been going to the group for artists who haven’t produced anything in a while. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be going, the words have been flowing pretty well ever since that weird dream I had a few weeks ago.

        Speaking of which, the strangest thing happened the last time I went to group. The guy who goes by the name Judas, the one who draws, he talked about a dream that he had…the same dream that I had. His version was not entirely identical to mine, but the feeling was the same. I could feel myself at my desk as he recounted the details of the dream and I could feel the cold breeze sending goose pimples up my arm as he encountered the deranged looking man in the white coat.

        After he finished speaking, the other member of the group, Crow, launched himself at Judas and for a moment it looked as though he was preparing to shoot him. Crow gripped Judas by the neck with one hand and with the other he made a motion as though he were reaching for an invisible gun on a non-existent holster at his hip, like the cowboys in westerns. He was screaming about the “dream” being his and shook violently with more rage than I knew a person could possess. Thankfully, nobody was hurt. I rushed over to wrench Crow’s fingers from Judas’ neck and Crow quickly stormed out of the room afterwards.

        After he recovered, I talked with Judas for a few moments. I told him about my version of the “dream” and he said something about an anomaly and something called NDA. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he obviously was not in a state to talk any further about it. We exchanged numbers and he said he would contact me tomorrow…

(Here we go again)
Checkmate, thoughts staring at the death-rate
Is it fear? Or the thrilling thought of escape
Can’t hate on the cards he was given
Drinking so sweet dreams dance to the beat of circadian rhythms
Broken down to their clockwork, as the quarks burst with each verse
Dispelling all the mystery
Without riddles, what’s a gumshoe to do
Looks like Holme’s gonna need another mission, geez
Better call the missionaries
Because it seems that these genes have turned from His favor
Zeus got jokes, something’s amiss
The only one I can trust is the best known traitor
Gears grind until it hurts
But God’s stopwatch will tic-toc until the pipes burst
And just when you think the board game will end
Here we go again

Sunday - Entry 1

 It’s cold, colder than I feel it should be in fall. I shiver, a cool breeze brushes against my neck and I get up from my seat to close the window, but find that it’s already closed. Chalking it up to my imagination I sink back in the rolling chair and mindlessly tap the desk with my Bic. Another breeze, chillier than the first, sweeps across my neck and my arms shudder with goose pimples. I spin around in the chair and check the window again; closed. I press down on the lip as hard as I can anyway and as I rise to return to my seat I notice something behind the dresser next to the window. I pull the dresser away from the wall to reveal a partially open [redacted] that I had never noticed before. Goose pimples pop up all over my body as I shudder again, but not from the breeze. It feels like something is in the room, watching me. Could something have come out of the [redacted] without me noticing? What could it be, if anything? Fearing that the breeze might close the [redacted] and sensing there would be no opening it again if it did I step past the dresser and over the threshold.

                I walk into a dark [redacted], thinking to myself it couldn’t be that long considering the size of my room. I step cautiously through the darkness feeling for any obstacles but find nothing. Another breeze brushes against my neck and suddenly I feel compelled to walk further into the [redacted], as if some unseen force is pursuing me, demanding that I go on. And I do. For how long I walk I cannot say, but I do as the force commands and eventually I see a dim [redacted]. I approach the [redacted] and find myself in a [redacted]. As I get closer I realize that the [redacted] is being held by a figure in a long, white coat. He appears to be examining a long, vertical [redacted] in the [redacted]. My footsteps echo as I approach the figure and as he turns towards me I’m struck by his appearance. He is old, at least he has the countenance of an old man. His face has bruises all over it and his eyes are sunken into his skull. He looks angry and somewhat frightful, like he is desperately trying to finish something before running out of time. We stare at each other, both of us strangers encroaching on one another’s space. Questions begin to form in my mind as my shock gives way to curiosity, but before they can find their way off of my tongue, the [redacted] in the [redacted] behind the man opens, and like a great beast, swallows him whole.

Born on the runway.
Told there’s just one way
Drive throughs till sunset
Well that’s what some say.
Can’t wait till Sunday?
Lord knows why.

Redeemed of the sins we’ll commit again on Monday.

‘cause of fallacious priests,
So he seeks voraciousness
to escape Greece

these streets of Crete;

Just a means to meet the beast,

so he offroads
to avoid the leashes

tryna iron out my chronometer’s creases.

They wanna know his tricks,
But he ain’t like the cliques,
So he rolled down i-76
And he ain’t looked back,
Lest he turn to salt
and they ain’t worth that.
Watch him fade to black.
Hammer and nail,
tooth and claw,
he will start from scratch.