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Shades are drawn, blue.

It's eleven. Outside, people are living their noisy, dirty lives with their thoughtless joyful noisy brats.

Four pillows, one underneath my hips. Blankets twisted like comforting snakes. Mother, I'm going under. This quiet blue room is self-contained, so silent with the windows locked, blinds and curtains up at arms. Hush. It's a communion, and the light pulsing from the laptop laid reverently before me. The confessional. It waits.

The words come, bubbling forth faster than I can get them on paper, so I'm guttering, choking, on the rough consonants of a Germanic language and the staccato pulses of a Middle-Kingdom tongue. I've got half-written sentences scrawled on notebooks, receipts, illegible, and I'm covered in runes that smear and smudge. Have to get them out--it's a matter of survival.

Leave them in, and the words will eat you from the inside out.

You'll end starving for something, feverishly producing words to fill your hunger, but it's the cycle, see, because your own words are useless against your own want, and you're just making yourself hungrier for more, more, more.