"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." — John Milton
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Yo, it's me again.
Who else would it be but me?
Why am I having this conversation with you?
Just let me simmer in the silence of the void.
Who knew silence could be this loud?
That doesn't even make sense.
You don't make sense.
How can my mind be arguing with me?
You're supposed to agree with me.
Says who?
Me... You?
Ahhh.
Zeke lay flat on his back, arguing with his own conscience.
Time had passed—longer than any stretch before it. Long enough that the measure of it had lost all meaning.
Now, he'd lost his marbles.
No, I haven't. Why are you even narrating like that? You're not a spectator or some almighty narrator—you're me. I'm you. We're we.
"Oh, fuck this."
He sat up abruptly, voice cracking through the void.
