It was on those nights that you're supposed to feel like the darkness is turning fluid, oily and tar black, seeping through all the cracks you feared might have been contained within your walls. You thought you had soundproofed your tears. Yeah, you thought you were ahead of this call.

Get the phone. Pick up now.

The voice on the other side; let it rain.

I heard drums, violins, the sea screeching, wild nature ravaging its mountain peeks, the alien little bats that crawl on the forest floor looking for an insect of two, their plush warmth. The funny birds, beautiful and strange, the huge hairy spiders, completely harmless. Your voice got lost in the debris,

but I think it was soft.

Your hands, painting stars that have not come to be on a ceiling far off in a country on the edge of the world. Your eyes, seeking out mystical entities of reality, placing them onto etchings in the night sky. A strange fumbling for the correct spelling and pronunciation of my name, Russian. Your soul, never lost on the brink of discovery, never ignorant of what may be. Hands, slightly larger than mine, reaching to satisfy longing, this I know. What you have told me I shall not write.

My voice, replying to the silence of my heart, listening at the cracks now; I know you as well, your name. It sounds so gentle.

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