This paranoia comes creeping in and starts wearing his skin like a cloak.

He's pulling back that velvet curtain revealing wooden eyes where that window should be. Never blinking, always watching, whispers it's bleakest tune.

The broken frame with shards for teeth is coughing splinters as it tries to speak.

That window has been calling out for love. Whispers it's bleaking truth in isolation.

And now he's bleeding in the garden.

While all the hours he sat in this room, just watching those days pass by

While all the shadows all crowd around him and whisper their songs of death and sing in isolation. We are illuminated in the invisible world that is upon me, and now I'm bleeding in the garden.

And now he has become the worst.