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The beat and breath of the primordial beast that stalks you will find their way around your limbs. They will creep up your back, strangling you, shaking your body until it falls, numb and wasted.
And when this beast comes with its beat and its breath and its strangling arms and shaking hands, you will accept its presence. You will bow your head to it, unquestioningly.
You will wait for it to decide your fate. Ever the passive. Ever the silent.
The time for talk, you'll say, has passed.
But even the dead speak. Their tombstones, aye, the slabs of granite that mark them, burst into a painfully one-sided dialogue. And even the deaf, dumb and blind find their ways; why cannot you?
When did you become so fragile that the slightest touch would break you, and you would shrink at the idea of articulation?
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