This small space I dearly occupy would have been feeling lonely had I not been.

These four walls — incomplete — without my deafening silence and screed.

My screed explains most of my story, my silence – my whole existence.

However obverse the two may hit my room’s intellect, it knows the crucial connection between the two.

Self-talking about the significance of merciful stances — I engage in days and nights. 

The self-professed ‘civilised behaviours’ — I rant on in minute detail.

Why do humans give forth animalistic inclinations, negating their positive attributes – kindness, love, and mercy?! I exhaust the energy of my vocal folds. 

I run my mind over nostalgic matters: have I — or has she — or has he — wiggled off from what once belonged to humans: the human thing: the quite significant one: hospitality? And quite I remain. 

Has our cumulative degeneration and decadence to do with our demonic tendencies to run ahead of the race? And I eat my own tongue.

Whence has this beastly behaviour popped up, launching an attack at the essential premises of the humans: HUMANS? And I gnash my teeth to the breaking point.

My room would have been feeling doubly lonely had I not been: one for the non-existent me and second for the unreal associated screed and silence.