I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

He is losing himself again, he thinks.
It had happened again – being taken. Or, he thinks it had, He remembers ice and cold and being hunted, and a thing closing in on him, and then – then there was nothing. Just white space. Like snow. He had woken up unscathed and there was absolutely nothing wrong except he keeps thinking of that endless white and sometimes he thinks he hears breathing that isn’t his. But that’s just his imagination, right?
The damned darkness makes it worse. Sleaze can barely see the trail in front of him. He is vulnerable, here.

He can hear it again, the breathing. Something lurking at the corner of his vision. He walks faster and stumbles over a root. Goddamned darkness. He’d give most anything to see the sun again, to feel its warmth, to be anywhere but in the dark meadow, trying to keep his own footing.
It's not particularly cold, but he shivers anyway. He is alone and maybe he is being hunted or maybe he’s just losing his mind, again.

Sleaze