Confined to attic walls, lies the hemispheric machine.
Restless with thought, constructing a wasteland.
Encephalic inhabitants spin a Web of a world, where only I reside.
All withheld is spilled behind eyes, in a theatrical series of questionable events.
A world forged solely on falsity, and fantasy.
What of this cage, when the coma breaks hold?
When design no longer coincides, with what hides behind my eyes?
What awaits on the other side?