Haven't you seen when the world stops moving? No sooner had you left than when I closed my eyes and leapt. I have no pity for you but my own ghostly, living, empathy. Felt the air as it took its vacume exit from the room? You know little of what makes me my own, I can forgive. My tongue has touched bitter haste and thanked words gone to waste. Didn't you hear the tedium evaporate into sick silence? There are no words for what you have yet to smell. I cannot drive home my own dystrophy to you who has never known it.