The Book Was Treasure Island

The book was "Treasure Island." At the time I hadn't read it - but, deep inside my brain, a little voice was peeping.
The world whimpers on - oh yes - dead, but won't stay buried.
"Too late" was long ago, and yet it doesn't matter.
Slipping into chaos and the fan goes 'round and 'round.
Phantoms in the attic grow colder by the year.
I cannot read, I cannot sing, I am sickened daily.
Strangle me if you must, but make it swift and brutal.
Naked trees and a godless wind. Surreal is real - that's what connects us.
Connecting is everything, but nothing to a dead man.
His hand reached out and touched me - tentative, warm and childlike.
The sky was mad and swirling and pressing down upon us.
I dreamed that we were children and we danced among the ruins.
Pagan. Pagan. Pagan. The drumming did revive us.
We placed the horns upon our heads and bellowed in our anguish.
We'll dance and spin 'til we are dead and laugh when death takes us.