There are no right answers. The sky rejects the birds, turns them over to gravity, embedding them in the concrete and dirt. The grit refuses to become a pearl, just as the wound refuses to heal and the flesh eats itself. The market sees a sudden spike in sales of Champagne and cyanide. Coordinated efforts seek and fail to curtail the rising tide of violence in the nation's dreaming. You realise that this crude, barbaric language that you can't understand is your own. Beauty glitches and pixelates. Frightened, furtive confessions of love are unheard over proud, visceral proclamations of hate. Tongues divorce mouths. Every now and then, a voice inside your head says, 'Thud.' The measures of sanity become more quantifiable and totally arbitrary. The horizon tightens like a noose.
It doesn't matter if this is wrong. There are no right answers.