Burnt Trees, and the Manchester Dogs Home Fire

The whole burnt-trees-somnambulism incident is creeping me out. Haven't spoke to the neighbours, but judging by all that silent ash, the blaze must have been enough to alert the authorities, or at the very least wake someone up.

So far, nothing though. I sit in the living room waiting for police to come asking for details on arson, but nothing. The family thinks some crackheads must have broken in and decided to go 1666 on the trees.

All I can say is that I'm glad I'll be back in the flat in a few days. Having those stumps facing me from the bedroom window is unsettling. Can't sleep well with their glowering presence, but judging by how I ended up before, maybe that's for the best.

I just hope nothing similar happens when I'm at the flat. My girlfriend'll be there to check me in my path if I get up in the dead of the night.

In other news, a local sanctuary for dogs was burnt to the ground. Just over 50 dogs were immolated before anything could be done. I know it can't be related, pretty sure they already caught the culprit. Weird timing though - but confirmation bias does that.

The image of that fire does nothing to help me sleep. Hearing the inhuman screams of those mutts, mongrels, Pomerinians, Labradors, Alsations, Huskies, Poodles, Pekinese, echo through my skull, roam rabidly through the city streets, never to find a street curb to rest upon. And the hounds themselves, rattling in their cages with wide, rolling eyes, frothing spittle flying from their mouths and hissing as it collides and is ultimately devoured by the fire that draws closer and closer, louder and louder and hotter. And all the while those screams still going on, because, yes, I have to go back to those screams, the cries of alien vocal cords creating a raking of anguish through the ears, that turns your blood to ice and turns the September night darker than an arctic winter. Rousing nearby residents from their sleep, dragging their senses beyond the walls they've chosen. Here is the sound that calls us gladly to our graves. A poor approximation, built in the still chill of black scratches somehow etched in light, but almost enough to fulfill its purpose.

I think it's time to close these curtains.