The "lag" phase

Chaos. Too many stray thoughts in your head. Like fireworks on Guy Fawkes night. Like beads falling from a string and rushing to hide themselves before you get a chance to thread them back together. The doubt of actions that never were actions. The self assurance of a conscience that never lived to see the day. The happiness of a moment rearing its nostalgic head from that red green end of the fire breathing dragon, sickened by the blood dripping from its fangs. Steps. Staircases. The dizziness on looking down from that great height where only the vultures dare fly. Knives, missing your heart by inches, but leaving you chained to the wood behind by the intricacy of mere cotton. Poison, from the lips of a Bella donna, shining brightly in the lamp light with all its alluring shades, tempting like a lustrous red apple. Smoke. Sweet, noxious smoke, making you fling back your head in the wake of its frenzy. Wires. Entangling themselves around you like ravishing devil's snare. The very bane of human existence. Pale faces, hiding emotions of a Tsunami. Slender hands. Fingers reaching for your face, nails poised to strike, scourge, and scratch cocaine bugs out of your eyes. Where does the road end? Unopened jewels, breathing quietly in watery graves, wrapped in their silken musings, never to be worn. A drop of blood for a pearly tear. Revenge? Much too rash for a butterfly like her. Secret letters! Embedded in green leafed cacophony of estranged garlands. The blabbering discord of strange languages. Areas smaller than the heart of a Rickettsia, the gloomy walls of your self exiled prison.