Set your clocks.
It comes now.
Nothing you do.
Can restrain these thoughts.
And if these hours.
You stand your ground.
And keep thy heart.
There may be sound.
But fail you.
One minute too long.
A shame unsure.
Forget the song.
I guess I need to sleep. The boy who held the bell held it for far too long. And no pounding beast could release it, no matter the bruise, as dry as his eyes got.
While it may be true that some would rejoice to call these hours the fated return, and feast on the fear of a past that's set both solid and liquid, I will not let this be the Babadook.
I will not let this be my Babadook.
I will not let this be Babadook.
I will not let Babadook.
I will not Babadook.
It's unfair to memory and living. I'm not sure who are the demons, nor if there has to be new among those who dwell by my side. Although it's said that changes are the only certainty, perhaps we can bring a twist to this tired ruin.
I won't be weak. And I won't feel my head. And all these organs aghast. We'll just move through. With fear and darkness and death. For all these loose ends deserve to sleep. And so do their owners.
