Two, grumbling gargoyles sat like lizards in the damp, dark basement. Meanwhile, someone tries to sleep. They lay in bed, half in and half out of conciousness. And the little creatures hissing, mumbling nonsense did nothing to iron out the psychic creases of an evil early monday morning. The sky, though still semi-dark, promised to fade into hopeless daylight. Sweat poured from the pores of the man on the camp bed. The noise of the springs echo around the mostly empty flat. A few crumbs scattered across the formica worktop. The little mean devils turn their heads. There is a sound of the lid of a tomb being pushed away. They waddle into the house. Finding their entrance through the cat-flap. Though the cats had died years ago. As had everyone else. That, or they’d moved away, changed numbers, locks. The gargoyles plop upstairs and crawl onto the bed, noisily. One sits upon the mans chest, the other whispers in a dark tongue. Inside the mind of the man, two garden gnomes with zig zag mouths pour concrete into the mans lungs. The man stopped breathing only breifly. And woke up the following morning with a new sense of doom and despair. And had he written the letter, he knew it would make no difference. He threw the letter into the post-box. Laughed. Coughed. Kicked at the gravel with his tatty shoes and waited for it to grow dark.