Sit in front of the television;

There is an end of the world scene, on the television, but no one can know, only, me, its just sound, loud voices, they fill up the entire house and smash into my head.

I like to hear sounds out of the window, outside, like happy shouts and birds, even the insane cat girl that keeps shrieking, but an old man is out there, crying I’m dead. Shut in shouts, a repetitive lobbed stone, one stone of being part dead, next stone; you are dead, flurries of stone, like crashing tribes of birds hitting the stone slabs on the ground; I am dead, you are dead. I don't want to be dead, and stolen cuts at my bare feet makes my legs wooden, breaks my knees and slams down on the earth so slowly, that I don't want time to be moving, so I slam the window shut. On and on it goes, he yelps like an old man dog, and says You are dead! You are dead!

It takes my head!

I think he should shut up. I sit at the window, and he never shuts up. I sit on the floor; I face from the window to the wall, stones of death, still dead, never silent.

I stay all day with the shame of being dead, I don't go out, then, when he is zapped into the dark blue of the nighttime, mixed with orange slurs and break blues of light, twisting from particles to conduce sparks of colour through the night, I sleep. NO, I wait, I wait inside the bed, and he leaves. Then, she comes.