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