is everybody sick and alone? or is it just me in the upstairs hallway. is it just the ragged sound of my breath and the silence of the house otherwise.

do rocks fall like rain only on the heads of heretics? or do they also strike those who dont believe their own lies. those who realise half of the words they say mean nothing and the rest of the words they say only mean half of something, and that that half is damn near empty. those who try to speak meaning, and to mean speaking, but who lose one or the other between synapse and tongue.

do honest eyes wake up bloodshot and bleary, looking for a focus but finding a crowd? wake up and find all others averted, turned away from their view, kept closed to keep the poison out. do they smile and shine, like button eyed dolls, or do they look like the ocean rocked by the waves? do they wander like prophets, or do they worship like priests? gold ringed by blue ringed by blue ringed by red.

do patient hands bear the lines of a penstroke? do the fingers grow taut and red at the knuckles while the backs turn loose and tired? the palms bruised from tearing out sheets and sheets worth of diary history, the tips cut from the frenzy. are they gently and kind and sweet to the skin, or do they burn like acid when applied to the cheek? the small pink paint peeling fingernails contrast color with the starkness of white. angels of mercy, tearing words from my stomach. clasped together in hope of being filled where they often are held up empty.