There was once a thread. Thin, barely visible, stretched between yesterday and tomorrow. Someone pulled on it. Maybe me. Maybe you. Maybe it was just the wind, giggling, tugging, whispering: Just a little more, just a little more… Rip. And suddenly, things start to fall. Names. Faces. Thoughts that were never fully formed. A whole sky of shattered glass, but no one screams—because what breaks was never truly whole. The shadows dance in the corners. They point with fingers that have no bones, shape words that no lips can speak. They're telling me something, I think it’s important—but the sound shatters before it reaches me. Doesn’t matter. I craft myself a new truth from the fragments. Piece it together with blood and whispers. A masterpiece of things that never happened. They call it madness. I call it home.