My creation, is it real? Superstition, there's a feel. Hypersensing details falling all between the lines, thinking back I wonder if I really don't have time. Soon I'm coming home, a vessel all my own, to attain eternal life, into the light. [I tore off my face, I don't want it back, do not let me see it, it will fade to black.] I'm waiting, still breathing, no longer worth deceiving. This flesh decaying but my, heart's, still, beating. This goes, far beyond you. Stirring, something