Why NIN, Sylvia Plath and a lack of talent don't mix

The riser watches.

I’ve seen you spiral and circle on that lonely arc. I’ve watched, through infinite periods, the insects march in turn. I beheld you dance and fuck, bow and scrape. Your pathetic devotions amuse me, you build your castles – hideous monuments to nothingness, perhaps that will warm your hearts. Does knowledge slide in through the peripheral? Does it weigh heavily upon you? I know the stars are no consolation; those cold points of brilliance die out long before their false glimmer is reflected in your eye.

The riser watches.

When you see a mirror what does it show? You run and cry, befriend and die. All will return to me and all will succumb. In a place of tangled webs and floors laden with the dust of ages I will take you to my breast. Blackness will envelop you, a blackness of all the senses, an eternal scream. Hell? Hell is just a word my friend.

The riser watches.

And I shall be waiting above it all – laughing to myself at a joke you will never know. Waiting for you...