He walked to the shades and drew them closed.  The light had begun to peek into the room as the sun went down and it hurt his eyes.  He lay down on the carpet and looked at the tiny circles that had been woven into the nylon mesh.  He felt the harsh abrasive nature of the wiry textile push into his face and run through his fingers.  His palms began to itch from the sensation and it began to spread throughout his entire body.  He tried to scratch every single spot that screamed for his fingernails.  It wasn't enough.  He got up from the floor and ran to the kitchen and grabbed the scrub pad from under the sink. It was caked with old dried food that he had scraped from his dishes.  It felt good but he couldn't reach the center of his back.  He dropped the pad and went to the drawer where he kept his silverware.  He grabbed a fork and started to scratch his back.  He could feel that he was digging into his skin, but he didn't care.  He started to feel liquid running onto his hand.  He drew his hand up to his face and saw that there were pieces of his flesh in the tines of the fork.  His blood was trickling down to his elbow and he could smell the iron and salt that this red, alien, liquid emitted.  He realized that as the blood left his body it was no longer a part of him.

The itching started again and he dropped the fork.  He went to the cupboard and grabbed his cheese grater. He began to run it over his arm.  It helped relieve the tingle but every time he pulled back the grater would get stuck and he would have to pull harder to free it from his skin.  He grabbed a serrated knife from the drawer and began to run it over the backs of his hands.  The blood started to pool on the floor around him and while the sight terrified him he began to have clarity of thought.  To get rid of the itch he had to get rid of the organ that produced it.  He started to cleave off his skin.  He felt like screaming but the pleasure was so great that he could only moan. 

His flesh fell in hunks onto the floor, but the itching persisted.  He whittled himself down further and further.  His body began to crumble around him.  The itch would not go away.  It was his brain that was the problem. A problem that needed a solution. He knew that he did not have enough time left to solve it, but spent the last agonizing moments racking his brain and sifting through the files of information that could have relevance. Nothing helped. He died, in heap on his kitchen floor, frustrated.

Within the minstrel moans and above the folded homes
We have become more that then which was cloned.

She was washed with the whimsical wasps
And a faint whisper asked her to become lost.
She awoke to find that which she had known in ruin
Built and dismantled beyond the pale of that which was strewn

The lies had assembled themselves around the truths she built
and a sword fight and competition she struggled at the hilt

A push before the edge at last
Had ruined her, and so a cask
They built around the dunes
Dried and severed limbs they'd strewn

With her last breath she moaned an answer
To love those that had hurt, she became a dancer
Around they cask they ceased to build
And her emotion failed to fill

The lies had assembled themselves around the truths she built
and a sword fight and competition she struggled at the hilt

Where had she gone so wrong
Failed to do what she had done.