Blood.
Deep red seeps into my subconscious at night. The smell of it, fresh, drowns out the distractions that plague the emotionally-riddled people that irritate me so.
I can never escape from the blood. When I close my eyes, I see the red tarring my eyelids. I hunger for it, the taste lingering on my tongue.
Blood is what I knit. Fibers of it are woven into every strand, every moment, of the web that I've spun. Ensnaring the blue flies, trapping each one of my own personal annoyances.
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