They are the only ones who speak to me. I am the only one who understands them. Twelve delicate sounds with neat diction and sharp necks. Twelve who keep us all warm. Twelve preset expectations set by our minds. From my room, I can hear them, but everybody else just sleeps and fails to understand.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
Their life is longer than ours and they feel everything that we do. They become estranged and they run away, misunderstood. This is how they move.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
If they ever stop moving, they fall apart, sound by sound, or maybe freeze up in terror. They make me listen to them when I sleep. Deeper in my mind they talk to me. They move.
When I am dying, when I am insignificant, the sounds return. When there is nothing left to think, they will keep coming back. Twelve delicate sounds who can do anything. Twelve who can be found anywhere. Twelve whose only purpose is me.