(Note: Again, this was written over ten years ago. It's always a work in progress; I don't know if I'll ever finish it to my own satisfaction. Enjoy...)
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Not dictating words. Feeling emotion that I. . . . I--

Feeling, as words can describe. Inaccurate, I can feel nothing.

Filling time with useless thought, impotent anger, self-deceit-- hoping against accuracy, lower the percentage by ten. Barren and colorless, I revel in that which, to this day, remains only a hope.

Turn fact, I’ll digress this old and stale opinion, and exist without pride-- without dignity-- moving slowly but surely forward, taking in air as old as time, just as fresh now as it was then, so breathe easy. Someone shall cure this sorrow.

Could it be that time works against you? Silently screaming ever forward and changing everything, except that which remains not forgotten. Bent, twisted and folded, I move this to an area void of knowledge. No longer in the mind.

I know you, I can nearly taste it! Met long ago; Thought upon heavily; Cared for; More than for myself; Watched over by your Guardian and Protector; Protected by myself and to the death; If I die for you, then don’t forget me.

Organs turn to scar-tissue, defunct by bodily design. A slow death, planned like a spur of a moment trip to Hell. Poisoned by Nature, killed by Humanity, Technology, Eternity; forgotten by all who cared or not, except by those whom I loved. The arcane few.

Trees, shrubs, flowers, sunlight line the path chosen, three hundred sixty degrees, night and day. Sun burns bright above blue sky, too hot to burn, more or less plasma . . . and yet, burning. Extinguish in violent perfection on mountain horizon.

Twilight stars, few yet-- gentle breeze, humid atmosphere; questing in search of... well that, I do not yet know, sleepless for the sake of saving time.... no, remedy that. Time is constant, like the flow of water downstream, air smelling of rain and tasting crisp on the tongue. Blood of Earth, such things I do bathe in, pollute. One man and no chemicals. May skin turn to dust, slowly in layer. Lay on soft grass and relax tired eyes. Listen to the water. Remember that which is not void:

Love; Blood; Water; Air; Warmth; Solidity; Weather; Truth; Soul.

The days pass slowly, begin running together and gloss the past in hazy dysfunction. My spirit sweats delusion, providing me the backdrop of despair upon which I harrow. Effortlessly, the gravity of this place consumes me, corrupts my every fiber until nothing sane remains, though the remnants live on . . . though, as to what purpose, one cannot guess. Pulse beats erratic, body tremors, vision fails acuity; distracted in disease en masse; resist the mirage into the time lapse: weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia.

Light vomiting, skin slightly paler than usual. Skin on arms peeling, but not burnt. Eczema on surface, infect to dermatitis. Hair unkept. Head aches. Faint back on shortness of breath.

Minute changes, all too dramatic. Solitude leads to hallucination. Hallucination leads to extreme paranoia. Extreme paranoia leads to schizophrenia, to voices.

Waking to the sound of my own scream, from dreams of black sickness turned reality, through solitary confinement on an entire planet. Having all I need and no luxury, except that which I create for myself: Mental illness, eccentricity, narcissism; learn them, and want to self-destruct.

Like me now, Time is immortal, cancerous, bitter . . . living as death might in a polluted mind. Starving, I vomit bile, twisted in intense pain and grand mal seizure. Choking on my own blood and ready to die. Wishing for death.

Learned this newly discovered psychogenically produced, carbon-based combustion? Fire the dead wood after multiple millennia of isolation; too weak; too starved; gasping for a short and raspy breath. Too tired; too weary; eyes sank in; flesh rotting from living tissue; paradise can be the same as Hell. Pyre used in funeral; funeral pyre, the last hope of a wicked mind.

Spark the thought and start the wood. Smoky breath. Vision blurred. Take in these last acrid-sweet thoughts: Those which are valid. Enveloped, I burn dark.

Not dictating words.

Emotion . . . burnt, charred, incinerated. Burn to ashes and blow away in the final breath.

Dictation of emotion. Life. Hell. Death. Life reborn. Immortality. God.

End dictation.