― Richelle Mead, Succubus Blues
Again the Succubus calls, answered by my willing compliance. At the end of night, leading her further down the cluttered path, I grab her by the hand and take the fake offerings, momentary escapes void of relief. Grabbing her, my Savior, “Please speak kind to me, sooth my ache and dark thirst.” There are no companions in this empty pursuit, I barely make it out alive, who will follow me in my destruction? Holding the works of addiction, I set up a fix that never satisfies, only to do it again and again before the end of night. Many will lead me there, then abandon my desperate body to its agonies of thought. There are no tomorrows in this never land, dreams are abandoned on the altar of deprecation. The birds sing, announcing their joy of the morning. Their spectators that look on, mocking the death of ambition and hope, increasing my dread that comes at the end of night. Shake yourself my drugged soul, find your escape and run from the pain that finds you; a great price is paid in the dressings of celebrations that go on until the end of night. Caught again by the arrows of habit, striking me with precision through the errant presumption of safe chambers that open in the end of night. With no deliverance, shackles bind tighter with each twitch of resistance. To relieve myself of these panicked flights, I seek sleep, now stolen, hidden from my ever reaching mind; yet, I fight, until the end of night.