As I am

Can you feel these hands? Cold and hollow they buckle underneath the skin, shaking with the pressure of the deeds they have done. Just another day under the beating sun. Through the stale, sterile retinas that convert it's light into the visions that seep into your consciousness. None of this feels as it once had. The brain sits in what it has conjured and wallows in everything we fear, it's pushed to where it confines all of it's most abysmal of creations. In time they begin to speak, first as intricate reminders but slowly contort to form horrendously lucid reality. It is things such as these that make us human.