Middle

This is the turning point. When Hamlet everything. Or nothing. When swords are drawn from scabbards and sheath into the bellies of the unseen but always seeing, watching our every move and touch and feel through walls pinkened.

She can see the attempts at repainting, streaks of white, speckles and drips on unvacuumed carpet.

Sensations that burn through every fiber of skin within their bodies, warmth and cold. The sheer anger and fear and the smell of old bubblegum wrappers shoved purposefully into pages of nothing and the opposite of finding but not losing. The way it all represents just another pop song, another voice from the car stereo as the doors close but never open. Driving on terra firma morphed, changed, the firmness is silence is the bait at the end of the traitors stick. Climb these fish up towards heaven to be married to cold steel and heat.

Heat.

And there are streaks of bright white and then pink walls and speckles.

And they don't have to turn over hours later, when blacks become orange-pink. They will know the name of solitaire. Alonely. They will have no answers to no questions. Just a feeling.

A feeling of meaning and meaninglessness.