I am glued to the interior of my thoughts. A shredded ballerina figurine dipped in gold. Trees, water, sky. Autumn. Spring. Autumn. Outside, reality is thinning. Paper coaster. Tree sap in a dead limb. Walking down the street. Walking through time. A tunnel. The senses dulled to anything but fear. All words sound like ‘Run.’ Steps over water, along the dock. Darkness under. Viscous, tar-like. An eyelid, blinking. I can blot mountains with my hand, but not this sunset. This scream igniting the sky. The trees split open their heads to contain the twilight. A penitent wind blows in an ache for snow. The heat sinks. A rock in a pond. A shimmer of tears. I walk the labyrinth into the green of the forest. Blue shards of sky hit the ground at my feet. Gold filigree patches paper wounds. There’s no beast here. Only the torn consciousness suturing itself into being.