The Obscure

An indescribable destruction has been rudely set upon me, a legion of cloven-hoofed demons tear at my skin and pluck at my eyes. I am beset on all sides by the Vile Rotting Empires of Man.
"Raving", she said to me once, "And sometimes, Johnny, you DO rave."
This I know, dear mother, but you must understand that I have no choice. The words and the lines build up inside my skull, and mine only outlet is this screen. I have the paper, yes, but that is not the same. My papers do not pervert the minds of other Men, those brainless notebooks only grin for sport.
What is it that pushes these things into my fragile head? I do not know, my brethren, I've no idea. I only know that the pressure becomes too great for me, I suffer a daily mental concussion, an explosion of blood and philosophy erupts from my frontal lobe nightly. I apologize for the occasional splatter that the rest of you must clean up.
I request only that you take my ravings with a grain of salt. I do not know if that is the expression I am searching for; the truth is I do not know much, I may have been born with some potential, but it has been thoroughly baked out of my mind over the course of the millennia.
I apologize for these words, but as I say, I have no choice. Goodnight, my hundred children, and pleasant dreams.