What a fucking cliche I've become.
A head unwound and undone.
This decision cast without precision, 

how these sheets wander without the weight of two, throughout the night.

The light of memories, illuminate a world outside.

What will become of this web, of a bed, once the prey lands and leaves a stain of time wasted?

What will become of my head, when the walls surrounding, it has decorated?

Content.