I can only describe it like this:

I have once stepped through a door into a house where Forlorn and Desperate were having dinner-- I had to step in, how invitingly haunting, how intriguingly spooky to see such dangerous faces sitting together at a dining table.

Once I had entered, my emotions were taken from me like a winter coat. I fitfully fought to hold on to the deepest threads of my sanity, which wove together the innate human longing for purpose. I clung to what I wished to be real rather than acknowledging what is real—but that was soon stripped away from me as well. And all there was, was an emptiness of thought and I was simply a vessel of reaction.

I struggled to release the fear that was burning to escape yet had trapped itself, frozen, within the crevasses of the pit in my stomach. And all the while, I was paradoxically suffocated by a void, a void of reason—of understanding-- where all I could hear was the beating of my own heart. Who, even though was the very rhythm of life, which constantly beat closer and closer to an ultimate, inevitable silent betrayal, begged me to escape. Screamed, to leave and search for the pinhole of light outside.

I somehow fell in to a seat between no feeling and all feeling, falling and standing. It’s a conflict of emotions so indescribably heavy that its equivalent would out weigh the world and drown oceans— and how it found its way into my own lungs is a mystery so complex the axioms are simply undecidable.

Forlorn, stared at me:

“Zero can be divided here and parallels converge. Tragedy is a dance between madness and wrath. It is a war cry that leaves no room for mercy and when the music ends darkness swallows redemption. All who live, battle and die on this dance floor will have an epitaph on their tombstone which will read:

Q.E.D, Dammit. I was right the whole time.

There are two groups of people, Ones on the dance floor who know the truth yet dance anyways and everyone else who is paralyzed because they are trying to prove something unprovable before the music gets cut. The latter are frantic, frantic that if no meaning is found, goodness will be stripped of all worth. So they hoard, gorge, and get drunk off every pleasure imaginable."

Forlorn had grimaced. He was stuck here to torture, he didn't like any more than the victims he chose.

"Who do you think is the murderer here?”

My eyes lingered towards the door. I needed out, too long in this vacuum would surely cause hypoxia.

I fumbled with my coat and left.

I stepped out and looked at my watch-- and then it happened.

I no longer feared what destruction the ‘small hand’ wrought when I was certain the ‘big hand’ crawled slowly behind, restoring what once was.