"let's be given enough chance. our curse ignores these sweet offerings; not one ever chooses to read them. disconnection! where is the precision? the guts?" my fingers rub the seam of your scalp. i thought of the plain, white bar that scrubs troubles deeper into your head, rather than wash them right out. damn it. soap's stark, square nothingness can't absorb any of this terror. this dearly loved mind is caving in on itself and you don't even feel it. soon i won't understand you at all; your language will be too obscure. a white wall of noisy thoughts will brick up between us.
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