words per minute
10
ShrirangPatil
00:00
Speed
I placed the pipe to my lips, inhaling the acrid smoke with gusto, and awaited my fate. I exhaled, my vision distorted, and my mind was beset by a diabolical spectre. A stentorian disquiet palsied me, allowing angor animi to lave its eldritch, yet calming, embrace upon me - a symphysy which I could not revoke. My arms horripilated, betraying my psychic distress. My hands became pallid, the tendons struggling to brake free from the flesh, as I gripped the cold steel arms of the chair. I tried to speak, but my voice was reduced to primal grunts. Was this it? Was this the conclusion to this risible drama we call life? Upon my face was there a caricatured rictus, folly personified. I was balanced on the precipice of oblivion, staring into the chasmic desolation of psychosis. Why had I embarked upon this dalliance with insanity? Had the fascination and thrill of brinkmanship thrust me through the divide which separated the mundane with the sidereal, never to recoup my senses? Try as I might, my protestations were futile; Hell was to be the recipient of one more tortured soul. I released my hands and my resolve, to beard the keeper of my fate.