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The walls whisper tonight. 312 steps from my bed to the window. I watch shadows dance, remember her smile. It burns inside. Time moves like thick syrup, drowning memories. They say I'm better now. But the echoes never stop. Never stop.

Dear Mom, we're holed up in an old church now. The bells still ring every hour, though nobody's touched them in weeks. Anderson got hit yesterday - he'll make it, but they're sending him home. The nights are the worst. The waiting. Always the waiting.

Moses, yeah, a shepherd in the wilderness, tending his flock beneath the scorching sun. Then suddenly, before him stands a bush, burning yet not consumed. Who was he to lead an exodus? But sometimes, yeah, the most profound callings find us in our most ordinary moments.

The shadows stretch wide, wide across the gray world. We fade as the silence takes hold, cold and heavy. It pulls us down, deep into the quiet. The mist returns, drifting, always drifting, until the dark covers everything we once knew.

The coffee had grown cold, forgotten like so many things in this cramped apartment. Through the window, the city lights flickered like dying stars, each one holding someone else's story. He wondered if they too sat awake at 3 AM, haunted by the words they never said.

Tellll me why the shadows move likke that, I cannot remember the way it was before. The circlle keeps turning, but who am I seeing? Confused thoughts, they float like bubblles in my mind, always knowing but never knowwing. Darll knows.

Always comes the glass. Then the ice. Then the gin always cold, cold. It pours. Always comes the glass, the pint, the tumbler, always comes the gin, the vodka, the clears. The night flows on, always down, always pouring.

You know what's funny bout the dump? Everything there got a story. Some stuff just broke, some got replaced, some just weren't wanted no more. But sometimes, the broken things work better than the new ones. Seen it plenty times myself.