crevice

it is like a sole crevice on an otherwise, generally, untarnished face. this single fissure whose tendrils of pain are almost melodic in their very minuteness. and then you reach down and realise that the crevice opens into a boundless cavern, and all your screams echo and double back to deafen you.

there is no loneliness when there is this agony. and you do what anyone with any semblance of interest in their sanity would do.

you fervently, frantically, feverishly stuff it with everything else except the one thing that will fill it.

(truth)