OKay, here's my contribution...
The man with the short-cropped black hair rubbed his bristly scalp and yawned. He tip-toed across the kitchen's icy and peeled linoleum to make some instant coffee.
It was a terrible night. He managed to stop Baffer May from materialising in his apartment, sliding impossibly with the wall: eyes and mouth wet and sloppily begging him.
The kettle boiled off and he filled his mug with black and bitter, frothy caffeinated horror.
He sat on the split-seamed sofa, foam spilling a little more.
The man's arm itched. He scratched it. It is an intusive, ugly mess of acid-scar tissue. He had learned to avoid abstract, undefined symbols.
He was once very different and then he had to erase all the swastikas, thorny curls, and gothic-scripted tattoos. He had to drop everything he held tp yhis heart.
He wasn't upset anymore. He saw the whole world in one screaming moment. And the world saw him back, read him like a book. Then, it started crossing out the words that made his reality, editing him.
Every now and then, the faces would come and poke out of the walls, where the minds-eye could conjure the faces spontantuously. Pattern recognition demon summons.
He sometimes remembered his past narrow shadow of a life and he would guffaw without finding it funny. Just a passage through the tranquil sea of blissful ignorance: a torch of violence shining its curdled light on his monochromed vision.