Tensional Imagery

I think it will be anytime soon that I begin - wait, completely break down into some deranged beastly bastard and start ripping the whole world apart. I've just realised that I'm really very very dead for all my subjects, including Maths C and Econs. Oh my God. If only I had a God. But that's beside the point. My blood vessels, like swollen containers of frozen fire; they're waiting, waiting ever so impatiently to burst, for all that crimson fluid of a million red cells to come pouring out. My eyes are drooped, tired and weary, I think they'll just detach themselves from my sockets very soon, and stare with all their infantile innocence at me, then at the teachers and everyone else around me. And ask the world they might, what has become of our master?

My every footstep only adds more weight to my already burdened back, and yet I continue, go on trudging through the sluggish sludge of muck. And all that slime traps my feet, and impede my movement, a hundred undead corpses exerting a unimaginably unreal grip on my ankles. These unholy creatures want you to die with them. Want me to live as zombies with them. And yet, like a Templar warrior, sword in hand I advance toward my goal, the dreaded woes of a million worries.

The putrid stench of decomposing human bodies is more than enough to draw up a queer feeling from within my gastric compartment. And the stench shares the air, along with the descending snow, of blackened bile and fingers.