Sounds and Bruises

I've been had.

Every other thing seems outside these walls I've built with bruised hands. These smooth sturdy bricks seem uniform in the steep darkness, but the sun rises and reaches with its burning rays to touch the many imperfections in my wall. I come to see that they are not bricks at all, but straw.

The wind screams your name, I've tried to cover my ears but the drill is deafening. I can see the blood trickling down the sides of my face, out of my ears but I still hear this maddening cry. It's no sound at all that pierces my hearing.

And yet, and yet.