Tonight, every night, it's just me and the moon and the darkness beyond, staring at one another, one chasm into the other, yawning, faceless, empty.

Hours slip this way and that, and I don't quite mind. I grin to myself, and my world becomes one of ivory and flacid flesh, of saliva, and a knotted tongue. My throat aches. Silence burns as incendiary as the coarse passage of a shriek. This is my world. I am drowning in my own body, so very, very slowly. Meat. Whose idea was it to wrap me up in a sack of squirming, bilious meat?

I cock my head to one side, and listen to the silence. Yes, I listen to silence, and it is so loud I lose all sensation in my everything. Ah... I lose sensation. No more meat. No more pitter-patter of cool air against my skin. No more squelching tug of tendons, no more inch-thick packaging with a torn open lid and a broken seal. I am the raging of that silent moment. I am an echo in a wall-less infinity.

Tonight, every night, it's just me.