Into the wee small hours of night, I write.
Heavy with sleep, the madness consuming.
I plunge my pen into the paper repeatedly, recklessly,
angrily,
carefully,
joyously.
The blood of the monsters smeared over the paper, all over my hands,
but I do not care.
I continue to hack at the beast, for he has wronged me.
In the end, the madness consumes me. I am content.