1 Accept the song of the crickets, but protest the sound of the lights. On and off. On and off. On again until it's late, way too late; my eyes are blank, and that blankness is trickling down my throat, all the way into my lungs. These lungs are confusing the light and the air.

I keep on missing the mark, giving up, trying again, missing again, trying again. It's too late again, and it's worse this time. How can I see when the lights are going on and off and on and off, and there are white spots in my lashes? I try not to blink. I try not to blink.

Lead breaks; a plateau meets paper. Scratch. I can't write anymore.

2 I'm moving too slowly to feign ignorance and too fast to ask for help. You all keep on missing the mark, giving up, trying again, missing again, trying again. The answer is suspended right over your heads, silent and obvious, yet I know even the lightest feet cannot reach a thing that doesn't exist.

My sickly skin is just now sensing the squally worlds between us. The winds here are cold and rough, whipping and screeching, screeching and killing: every day, something new causes me to jump back, mildly annoyed, annoyed, irate.

My friends, I'm afraid the end of us all will be all my fault—and I can't write anymore.