They speak. Speak so loudly… As if the world has no limits, as if humans are all free. Those callow fools, they will only see the darkness when they reach the end…

And I lay in the depths that they do not see, that keeps them from seeing, that consummates and enhances light. They live in their world of brightness, while I invade the spaces between… I was here, is here, and will forever be here. The darkness is in me, I am the darkness.

I observe their actions, their smiles, their conversations – hollow and blank verses. Happiness is a theme of the unseeing and grief is its wiser counterpart. It is easy to smile. I smile every day. It is difficult to cry. I barely do. I have not cried for years, I forgot how to. What is the point of crying anyway, when tears make up 70% of our flesh? Just watch the liquid pour as the pen knife strikes, a different colour to the tears from the otherwise hollow sockets we bear.

They look towards me and smile awkwardly and turn away again, whispering among themselves, all the time directing their gaze at me. I pull my legs in as my gaze shifts to the sand—they are so much nicer to me, these irregularly shaped specks of light brown. They just absorb my words as I mutter to them. They are my best friends—listening to me as often as I visit them. They take in everything I say, and advise me with life. I hear them in my head; I see their faces on the ground. Unlike those shallow humans hogging up the air, they sit quietly awaiting my arrival.

I lie among and on them, feeling so at home. I just want to be one of them, so this world where I live a human no longer exists—where I am free to cling onto human skin… Make them another of me.