Clock

The clock is laughing at me.

Each tick burrows into my head and eats me. The walls, windows, books, all laugh.
Monotonously, ignominiously, while more worms drain me.


Walls.
Protecting from the outside but holding me to allow for a quicker decay. Torture. I don't need the fickle knowledge in these walls, it will not stop the fatality of the burrowing.

The words are not the antidote - they are the anaesthetic with the rusted, jagged needle.

All these walls do is give more food of useless thought for the ticks to consume.