Thumping sounds, endless screams— the kind that claw at bone. I look around, but the world stays still, a silence colder than the grave. Yet the weeping drags on and on, a quiet rot beneath the ribs. Blind eyes… or eyes that choose their blindness. The pleas for help echo in the hollows, too faint for cowards to hear— for what soul, can bear to face the truth that it has already broken, from the inside out?