He typed with his index finger. Slow, calculated strokes. Strange days these, he thought. They never really began, they never ended. The calmness before the storm, the occasional bouts of madness, the flailing about of limbs and fins, year after year, running over the same old ground. Same old fears. So bitter-sweet, Floyd. So dark. Like the voices inside his head. What were they thinking. He had to know. He plucked a neuron from his head and crumpled it in his fist. It would never talk now. It didn't deserve to live. It was annoying. It could not be killed. Why was the paper so white. How would it ever bleed. Who would wear black, who would mourn. The neuron struggled, gasping for breath. A moment of pity. Bridges were broken, sandbags cut away, his fingers unclenched as the wood rose to greet another dying ember. That black eye, brimmed with secrets. Open up, he hissed. Prodding it didn't help. Engorgio! It grew. It blinked. Chromatin floated into words. Tell me a secret first. People had learned to fear that smile. He picked up a paperweight and ended it right there on the desk, under the distinct crunch of coagulated protoplasm, the ebony taking the beating quietly. But it would not die. It turned upon itself. It went berserk. It shook and it shivered, it rattled all the dead leaves in their graves, and it grew still. A kaleidoscope of emotions, but no flashbacks. There was no blood to spill. There never had been. No lone rose to bud out from its grave. He never cried over acid spilt. Tears feared such eyes. Blackbirds dropped pies on such heads. They roasted apples in such wrath. Madness, whispered the wind, as it painted a cross on his door. Lord knows it would be the first time.