In my hand, the sand shaker and the utensil which I scribble. In the throat of the dark, I sleep in the inkwell. Hearing the footfalls of voices. "This little piggy, he brings a fork..."  From the shadow space of bedlam's widow. Now a hollow shell on the pillow. Catching a breath, making a cat's cradle from strings of death's library. Inhaling the screams of illicit dreams. Perhaps, another theme. From the inner sanctum of my lobotomy, among the dead, as they tiptoe across the moss. Now as I huff and puff in my Big Bad's Bag and shortbread too. In my hand, the sand shaker, to dry the ink of the dead. "This little piggy, he brings a fork..."