quiet. still and silent, a little taste of mystery to hold us over in panic. let the fear drip from the walls as they close in, bandages adhering to our cracked and breaking lips. a silent screaming sigh, that plays out the cords of misery's disappointment in discovering that speechlessness has found us first.

a cold touch down our spine like the drip of winter water from a decade old rain pipe, set on a roof of rusted, warped tin. a scrape of nails down iris purple shoulders pushed deep into the skin, but we are told to stay quiet about the truthfulness of things.

but little consequence, and little fear. for much longer we won't be left down here, though we might miss the quiet. voices travel better through cement and rebar walls. little whistles of laughter and slight mania, but left alone who wouldn't find comfort in the crazy.

for we have lost the longing for fear. it seemed to disappear after spending a few years resting here.