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.