I hear the murmur of rain on the roof. She steadies herself against the wall, her ears ringing a dying song. The air smells of decay as she moves along the edge, blood trickles out of her nose and she suddenly freezes like a scolded child. The room moves without her, and her legs begin to quiver, drunken with shock, locked down tight like a prison cell, they shudder. I hear the rain falling harder now. She looks toward the door. Could she make it? Would she go through the door, into the nameless arms of the world, leaving her fear and home behind? She has nowhere to go, but things do their howling in all places, slipshod drifters in thankless alleys shriek above the darkness and sometimes their lives come to shattering. I hear her uneven breathing over the drumming of rainfall. She moves closer to the door, edging toward her escape. I know you. You’re the one that’s been banging the walls, the one that’s been lying to everyone about your face. You’re the one that’s ra...
(The Weaver's Song)