The pervasive vibration that makes your insides cringe and reject all the love you think you put in.
The putrid smell of failure, of crying, of trying but never holding on to all that you win.
The foul taste from the cup that you’d sworn was pristine.
The demons that hide, safe and quiet in your dreams, their shadows remaining though your mind is wiped clean.
The sticking sensation that you may be right.
There are lifetimes, not hours, left in this night.