i hear the time bomb tick (it ticks for me)

A sense of foreboding clouds over my quiet moments... everything burns, and so too shall this. Who shall strike the match, is the only question. Not if, but when.

Life feverishly hurries along, dashing through the alleyways of my downtown life like a crook on the run. Events approach and pass, beers are ordered and drunk, people spring in and fade out, and the world revolves one more time. I live not in an existence of peaks and valleys, but of potholes and slippery cement. Neither better nor worse, just faster and less poignant. The dulling of colours, so to speak.

Which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell

I lust after that line... if I could filter my creativity like literary dialysis and bear a statement as magical as that, I would feel the muttering angst to be worthwhile.

I'll share a secret... down there, where black is white, I have a lust for chaos. A masochistic fetish, I'm sure, but it explains much. What other reason could I have for consciously walking down treacherous paths in the dark, if I didn't secretly crave a mugging?

If everything burns, then I'm digging around my pockets for a match.