bracken

how pan's love is so difficult to imagine...there's no such thing as impossible, but there is such a thing as insane or mad or...pathetic. and i sit with a hundred needles piercing my head, some of them going through my nosebridge, my brain a porcupine inside-out, my heart finely minced with all the grassblades munched by pan's goats. will i ever move from this squeaking chair? will i ever move from this dreadful rickety chair that's bringing me nowhere but here within the stone-cold walls of my mind?

even my blood is sludge, not flowing, just inching its way to i don't know where since my heart has been reduced to pulp. for it to thin, i have to bleed, but i do have a wound somewhere, somewhere in me, where everything else is bracken and black and about to fall apart. i have to find that wound.

oh, god. where is pan?