I fell down again, on my knees and so small again. My eyes, blistered and swollen, observed the world around me. I am so insignificant. It’s Tuesday now, and my own world swirls and twirls above me, elusive and transparent to those around me. Inside my head, a maze, twisted and warped, its foliage overgrown and out of control. These legs of mine move so softly, quietly, as though I dare not tempt revealing myself. A ghost, I am.  A white, hallow mist spews from my lips as I try to speak. This corpse can no longer speak, for I am dead. I am nothing more but an unheard whisper, my vocal cords contracting and colliding and silent. There is nothing here within me. Rigid fingers reach out, but slip through solid flesh and bone. It’s as if it is you, not I, who walks unalive. I seek out your heart, hold it within my boundless hands and I feel it emptying into the universe. There is pressure on your lungs where there is weight on my shoulders for what has been done.