The sour sweetness of silence. I haven't spoken to another human being in eight days, two
hours, and four minutes. The speaking clock tells me that at the third stroke, the time will be
six thirty-six and ten seconds, beep-beep-beep.

The birds are up too, and they call their chirpy greetings to me from the telephone pole outside.
Have a nice day! Have a nice day! I talk back. Yes, you too. You too.

An animal with its foot caught in a trap desperately gnaws it to get free; Ron Weasley ignores
Hermione, the voice of reason (and he will again) as he fights fiercely against the Devils Snare
plant; a person who hears the constant, crisp crackle of static tunes into a station only they
can hear. Their radio is clutched closely to their chest. The static is gone, and all the songs
sound the same.

Friend, have you ever watched a horror film, and a knife-wielding, masked villain is
approaching at a glacial (but menacing) pace, and their victim runs...

Back into the house? How you scream at the screen.

What are you doing? Why would you corner yourself like that?

The beauty in monsters is they never fail to hold you tight, even with claws in your back.
Opening the same old hooks that never really heal. And they never, ever, abandon you.

A delirious dream.