A ding into the silence, blistering sounds alerting ghosts of toppled tombstones.

A squeeze crushes inwards in response to the sound, blaring in its quiet alarm. Is this the sound of retribution? Of advice? Of false kindness masking truer intentions.

Burning me alive these fireworks reflect back the fiery explosion of death by entertainment. They’ll seek you out and flay you into meat, but just smile and make it until the Fridays of rest. Rest of Fridays are an illusion, but you already know that. Take the dissociation, false into the quiet, fall into the blank.

A ding into the silence, glaring reminders alerting ghosts of toppled tombstones.

A squeeze crushes inwards in response to the sound, screeching in its scream of calm. Is this the sound of vengeance? Of goodbyes? Of true kindness buried under quieter noise? Entire worlds revolve around this notion, yet not a soul seems to have a chord in which to speak.

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