The nardlers have come breathing heavy against the window in the shade of discontent. When the slovenly ones crept down the alley, she with her hump and he with his limp, the nardlers paced behind a smudge in the sludge. The nardlers have eyed from the bottom of the longest drink. Oblivion, sweet oblivion. There in the corner of the blind eye reason sits ignored. The nardlers have come to the dead hour of night in blind helpless rage whipping the shadows of isolation. Burst from this to be dead again. No sleep, only exhaustion. The nardlers have posessed the body with the constant craving. Feed, something, anything to distract. The nardlers dance across the screen grooming the child to build the walls. The baby likes the colors. Bathing in the bad blood the nardlers comfort the murderer. A pillow soft and coarse of thorns.
... and all the other things the nardlers do. 4am, couldn't sleep.