Middle of the night . . .
writing is extremely shaky, as if writer could barely hold the pen
I have to get this down. Maybe if I get it down, it'll get out of me.
I dreamed about streets full of blood. Corpses everywhere. And there were big cats, tearing people's throats out, clawing, biting . . .
And in front of me was a girl who looked just like me. On the ground. Dead. Her body was . . . shredded.
And there were two cats, still shredding her. They were . . . eating her. Taking bites of her flesh. Ripping it off the bones.
One of them had Kanda's eyes. The other one had Daisya's.
I don't know what's happening. It's like the dreams I used to have at home about the end of the world, only more vivid.
I have to get this down. Maybe if I get it down, it'll get out of me.
I dreamed about streets full of blood. Corpses everywhere. And there were big cats, tearing people's throats out, clawing, biting . . .
And in front of me was a girl who looked just like me. On the ground. Dead. Her body was . . . shredded.
And there were two cats, still shredding her. They were . . . eating her. Taking bites of her flesh. Ripping it off the bones.
One of them had Kanda's eyes. The other one had Daisya's.
I don't know what's happening. It's like the dreams I used to have at home about the end of the world, only more vivid.