In this moment, I can see pieces of myself floating by. I try to reach out and grab some. I try to get my life back. Myself back. But I can’t. I’m just floating in utter calmness, a void. A void that is somehow filled with pieces of me.

The room is dimly lit. An old bulb hanging in the middle, the rope, twisting and stretching dangerously far. Verging on the moment it will tear and the bulb will shatter into a flower pattern on the floor. Shedding light, no more.

Words course around the hanging thread. Meaningless words, words of no importance, words of no definition. Made up words. Words from fantasies, from lies, rage, truths and unknown words. These words mean nothing.

The room is circular and small. One window, directly opposite the one door leading in and out. The one window is old and opens the way they do in fairy tales, the one she always wanted.

She lays in the middle of the room, in the circular pool of light. She scratches her skin, her neck. Her nails are long and black. She makes a mental note to cut them today. She made that same mental note yesterday, too.

She begins to etch at a figure on the floor with a marker. The same marker that etched the meaningless words, which flow through the walls and circle the hanging thread. The figure, the figure is what? Lines, a body and lines, coming together to form something.