In the Garden of Paranoia, I listen to the haunting sound of bones, the horrific melody strung from the ancient bone-guitar, in the Valley of the Shadow of Shadows, at noon, I listen.

And beneath an oppressive sun, when the obscene heat of the Sun-King burns my human flesh and a chorus of monsters shrieks a mournful refrain, I wait for the merciless blast of gunfire.

Hunched over, I wait for the ominous thunder, the unforgiving sound of a booming roar. Rimbombo! I wait. And in that long lonely moment, my burning skin glistens beneath the sun’s glare, sweat pours down my fiery flesh, and my battered brain sizzles. Rimbombo! I run. In the Garden of Paranoia, I run for my life.

I run forever, I imagine, within the Circle of Circles, swirling around and around, clockwise perhaps, spiraling toward a vanishing point, it seems, but never reaching this mythical portal to freedom and peace of mind. But still I run. In the Garden of Paranoia, I run.

I rush across the swirling light of day, taste a turquoise sunset with my parched lips, and drink the dying sun’s rays with desperate eyes. And I hear the deafening sound of footsteps behind me, the thunder of death piercing my psyche, almost reaching and ripping my flesh apart. But with a sudden burst of energy, I sprint toward the twilight and dusk and disappear into the redemptive darkness.

I run forever, I imagine, within the pitch-black Circle of Circles, whirling around and around, counterclockwise perhaps, spiraling toward a preternatural vanishing point, a fugitive sailing through the sinuous darkness in search of freedom. Yet I hear the thunderous sound of my hunters. Their furious footsteps crush the barren earth nearby in the Garden of Paranoia. And I smell them too. Their obscene breath reeks of abominable evil-pulverized flesh, putrid souls, and molten, volcanic obliteration, paranoid eruption, psychotic annihilation, and apocalyptic extermination, launched from the unholy Abyss spewing suffocative flames, fetid fumes, and foul fires, cauldrons of madness, shooting out of the ancient chasm, the maw of the beasts, the cannibalistic black hole that craves my identity-my invisible spirit, sacred breath, holy blood, and celestial soul and longs for my holistic truth-my secret self, real self, and connection to the Source.

If the monsters find me, they will force me to gaze into the mephitic masks of Mephistopheles, smell my own evil, see my pulveratricious darkness, and lock me in my private Hell. And then, they will slowly torture me, devour my flesh, suck the life force out of my body, and eat my spirit. If the monsters find me, they will feed me to the Abyss.

The beasts are nearby. I hear their crushing footsteps. I smell their obscene sins. Only the blinding, pitch-black darkness that engulfs us saves me. I hide inside its whirling womb.

An ancient clock chimes 12 times. Midnight, in the Garden of Paranoia, I pass through a preternatural portal. Can the monsters follow? I wait, ponder existential and metaphysical mysteries, and wonder. Is this the mesonoxian hour of deliverance or destruction? From an eerie place, a luminous landscape, beyond the Garden of Paranoia, I watch the beasts struggling to penetrate an invisible boundary. On the other side of Existence, I stop running. Still, I watch the monsters lurking near the portal. I fear they will find a way to slither through, and permeate my darkest dreams.

Now, I hear their crushing footsteps in the other world. And I smell their foul odor seeping into my heavenly haven. Will they penetrate my psyche and stalk me in the Garden of Paranoia?

I guard the portal.