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By Declan Connolly

The lighthouse holds many stairs.
I’ve been walking up them for years.
My feet are trying to detach themselves from my legs.
I’m close to seeing bone; the veins are being pulled apart.

Everything around me begins to liquify and spill on to the staircase.
It creates a thick cloud around my head that nauseates me.
The walls begin to bleach as I pass them.
My walking turns into crawling as my legs fall away from me, hurtling down the stairs into the incinerator.

I always see a light but I never reach it.
My arms pull me up on the stairs as I begin to choke on the thick, black air that emits from figments of people I recognise at the windows.
Their figures as darkly coloured as the air around me.