Sit in space and stare into terror. Is this it? Is this as good as it gets? Blank lifeless faces stare back at me from the order that surrounds, wordless mouths pulled into self-conscious smiles. What is it they’re saying that I am not? What is it I’m saying that they are not? I used to have a brain. Now I just have grey sludge leached out by sweetness into grey dishwater, grey bathwater. Grey, grey, grey and they see it as colours. Come splash around in my grey colour, I’m just like you. You’re nothing like me. No, I’m nothing like you, so I’ll cut you - let’s take another colour, bright red this time. It’s another grey day and the cold is creeping under the door, through the window, clutching my knuckles that clutch my knees and grasping my elbows in its firm icy clasp. Winter is coming, and what have you saved? Air. So clutch your precious nothing and sit tight. Sit in space and stare into terror. Into terror. Into terror. This is it. This is all it is. There is nothing else. Nothing. But still I don’t give up. I really should give up. It never stops, any of it. Things change and stay the same in equal disappointment. What choice do you have but to live through it. Survive, again.