I am lying still, alone waiting for darkness; filling the emptiness by dreaming and by longing. Dreaming that I'm listening to the sound of your breathing. Longing to find comfort in closeness, in the reassurance of your touch, the sound of your sigh, the sweet taste of your breath; safety in the warmth of your presence. Longing to lie at your breast and dream, mesmerised, dizzy, intoxicated, of your lips; to define myself entirely in terms of you, to fade into you, to find immaculate consolation in you. But this is illusion, only more desirable for being so unattainable. Alcohol and chemicals distort reality; thoughts become echoes, fleeting and unconnected. Images swirl and form, dreamy and enticing, then wash away to nothing. Why even try to paint pictures? Creativity is tiresome; the canvas stays blank, uncluttered, pure, immaculate. I am lying perfectly still, listening to the hypnotic sound of my own breathing. Finding comfort in the enveloping darkness; safety in this perfect stillness; a kind of reassurance in the numbing emptiness of this immaculate desolation. My sense of self wavers and blurs. For a moment, the prospect of oblivion, of fading irredeemably to nothing: blank, uncluttered, pure, immaculate: feels achingly seductive, embracing, even alluring. Just in this moment I glance, mesmerised, dizzy, intoxicated, horrified, towards defeat.