You used it. Spewed it like venom, so ripe with the possibilities just discovered. The stale food smell, the ripeness of smell. It all came through, balled up in snow and rolled down the hill, came at me. The anger, the frustration, even the irritating smell of food lingering from the next room, you brought it all to me and threw the slop bucket in my face. I was glad, I could take it, but I knew you couldn’t- so I did. Oh the moon, do not weep from the heart of your icy surfaces, the fingertip pressure that is applied for that perfect sound; that sound that is akin to twinkling lights blurred in the distance, they turn into willows, willows of the wisp, they are bringing you into the darkness, that you don’t know and aren’t thinking of, you follow them, and in this tunnel of light you faintly sense foreboding, but your conscious is sleeping, you continue, the little lights say, you don’t have to be afraid…you follow you follow, but you know that if you don’t open your eyes eventually, something bad will befall you, a still soul ready as prey, for the darkness, for the unknown.