Samnýtt hljóð

The thought of leaving is a lure, a siren song promising freedom from this psychic prison. My heart rate picks up, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I could slip out. I could be gone before you wake. I could pretend this was all a nightmare. But where would I go? Back to my empty apartment? To wa…

The thought of leaving is a lure, a siren song promising freedom from this psychic prison. My heart rate picks up, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. I could slip out. I could be gone before you wake. I could pretend this was all a nightmare. But where would I go? Back to my empty apartment? To wander the streets in these ridiculous clothes, a half-dressed fugitive from my own life? The fantasy evaporates as quickly as it formed, leaving behind the sour taste of reality. There is no escape. The