Funny how all that stays unsaidis where my quiet dread is bred—this ache I’ve yet to redefine,still loath to sever the design. I cannot press these creases flat—they fold in ways that echo back,in pain that loops, again, again—no matter...

Sheila is and always was a schizophrenic. This misery has haunted her since the dolls in school shifted their eyes to her – whispering… she still hears them. Shrieking glasses in the cabinet… no they were only fracturing, shattering...