Sleep, on your bed of needles.

I take immense pleasure from other people's pain. Pain, it would appear has become my drug. Not pure, physical pain but emotional eating away pain, something that grows like a brick in the stomach of innocent, breaking characters. My prose really gives very little away, simply a ball of pain painted on to paper.
I get excited by failure, by risks and by fear. Perhaps, my fear of the wind blowing and a late night robbery is less horrid if this happens to another person, a friend.
Oh what a smothered echo I have become.