All of the places inside me where the boogeymen hide are cracking open. I close my eyes and the things with fangs which hide within my blood, and bone, and brain, their teeth glitter in the darkness. At the moment, at least, it seems I have passed the point of despair. The period, however long or brief, in which you rail against it, in which you sob and struggle and lay curses upon both small and large gods. Perhaps, I have even, for the majority of moments, let die the part of me that struggled purely with self, I have let her sleep, at the least. She rarely rises to try to lift me where I would not go, or to attempt to suture and cement the inner fissures. Perhaps I have become at last too heavy and the chasms too wide to patch.