My eyes decieve me like an illusionist decieves his audience. The slight of hand producing questions no mere mortal can answer. This magical state of mind driving a wedge through reality like a knife. The world moves past me like time defective, stuck, jammed on fast forward. All efforts fleeting like a ray of sunshine in late December. Darkness promises lies of freedom within it's walls of isolation, burried deep beneath the soil of compact fear. I gasp for air but none reach my lungs. Screaming, beating, the cedar plywood cracks shining a light of hope just out of reach. My body shakes like a seizure, uncontrollable, with no end it seems. Muscles aching tight and straining like a lion ready to pounce on a gazelle or the gazelle running from death, Death. Death takes over my mind and body as if saying that my time has come but time continues to move at a pace I can't keep up with. I run faster and faster like a broken treadmill only to find my efforts meaningless as I spill my guts from exhaustion. Suddeny, silence...calmness...the storm passes. Its only the eye of the storm. My eyes continue to decieve me.