Is it intentional?

This irrational fear that gnaws and consumes… Are all writers afflicted? Are we all so desperate to tell our stories, real or imagined, that we will surrender our own daylight for the promise of another being’s sunrise?

It is dark, this place. The affliction personifies; it now writhes and beats against the walls. There are no trapdoors. It is medieval, this place. The body that conforms to the prison within — holed up under the guise of another manifesto.

Hundreds of years later, the castle walls will crumble. You will be found – do not fear. Unable to stand, body disfigured, sentenced to a death within the bricks of despair.

Found, but forgotten.

Unearthed, but unknown.