Gripping Voice

“You say the damndest things.” I thought of this, realizing

truth hugs and truth evades. How was I to fathom mania—

an internal neighbor? “Your eyes are bloodshot; have you

had any rest?” I evaded, and spoke of pizza—alert that

something was askew; and most likely—it was me. I was

soon to search an interior: plucking plums, and draining nectar.

There was a knock at a widow. I flung a door open; reached

out; and held a stranger. “Are you alright,” she asked. I

evaded myself, and uttered, No. The lights went out and she

disappeared. Whence this lady? an extension of pure need:

my eyes and ears; ushering me towards a mirror. I saw a face,

a mystic shadow. It spoke in silence, ever tugging

consciousness. “You’re alright,” it said. I kneeled and

touched the carpet. Such texture: soft, and yet, firm: bold, and

yet, quiet. I soon awoke, an eerie silence, gripping voice.