Mary, who are you talking to? My sister is in my head and I can hear her screaming her disapproval at me, but I ignore her because arguing with her will only convince my father that I am insane. I do not deny the fact that I’m crazy; I just don't want anyone to figure it out. Because not all of us are proud of who we are.

Father talks to me sometimes about his dreams—vivid, bright dreams gone in a flash of light, whose lovely rays have only touched him once and left him permanently altered. I wish to experience these dreams myself and see how they can warm my heart to impossibilities, things I belittle with scorn and disbelief. Why believe in the impossible? It's a waste of time, it consumes your mind, entices you with its perfect aspirations, and then it breaks you. You may argue that you’re much too fragile to be broken but there are other ways of breaking things that involve twisting and maneuvering into new shapes. Like cellophane plastic wrap. Broken. Does it ever look the same? Can it ever find itself again? Can we? I beg to differ.

The darkness was so absolute I had forgotten the light of day, perhaps because I had never seen the light of day. I felt myself shrinking to become as nonexistent nothing as the ants that walked the ground because we could not see each other and were not aware of what each other looked like. Was the ant big or small? Touch could not tell; touch was blind as well.