This is something I’d almost forgotten fickle mind. ::Enter stage left, The World’s Quietest Storm::. My mind is like Hollywood so many sequels I can’t tell the difference and don’t know why I even come to the theater anymore. I’d leave the building except I’m always seated in the middle with the legs of a number of people blocking my exit. Likely to end up tripping landing on the floor next to week old vomit and stale popcorn. I’ve also forgotten the scariest thing about this. When it comes for me, this face-burnt, sharp-toed fear, I would do anything to free myself from it. Excise it like Time’s most wretched birth. Sell my soul if I knew how. Find religion, though the faith is always fleeting. I forgot this, panic, raw and flailing, trapped inside a screaming space with muffly walls, when I am all of edges and vaporous. I am a Flail, the noun-ed version of a verb. I recalled the fear, just not in full the abject desperation.