It's all true

Sinking into mental illness, this place makes me feel empty and alone, it's like a house made of bones. Like a ripple that time forgot, nothing ever changes from within, but from without I grow older, wrinkles lace my face like frost-lines bloom across a frozen lake. I don't know how to deal with it. It is here where I feel least real. Dead birds sift through the walls like grains of sand they land on the floor to rot, cold and stark. There is no longer a "him" or a "you", there is no one left to write to, no audience, and I will not bow out but I will slowly fade away. The clock beats on ever faster and life about and around changes and time does go on and another day is lost as I achieve the grandest finale of infinite nothingness. I can see it in my dreams. The last shiver.