Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

...and we'll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No.

We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.

My favorite songs change every year.

He is spent. His mind is mercury again, its brief surge of humanity melting into an oily residue on its surface, and he no longer understands the feelings he felt in that strange moment on the overpass. But he did feel them. They did happen. They rest on the murky seabed of his mind, buried under sand and silt and miles of grey waves. Patient seeds waiting for light.