Typewriter fills the page with
epitaph the darkness has ordered
to sow the blight.
A voice calls out: "Follow the light!"
disembodied and familiar.
But the room is dark and splashing with water
and his eyes blind to its boundary.
The witch urges on as he tears his soul apart,
clawing, gnawing, gashing, scratching
ink blots foaming at his mouth.
His nightmares shape someone else's dream.
Then a click of the light-switch and...
"Alan, wake up."
Light pours in like a spectre, halo over its head.
"Alice."