I detest your silence, not the madness and fear that it hides. It’s your pestilent distance than plagues me; the pernicious strain of isolation that you exhale with every labored breath befouls the room and makes a sickbed of my sheets. You can hear the bell ring as I call, and yet you heedlessly refuse to bring out your fucking dead.
No matter. If you won’t surrender your secrets, I’ll simply have to come in after them.