Lying, motionless, your eyes closed, feeling the uneven covers beneath you. What's supposed to be recognized as a manifestation of relaxation and idleness, heightening the effects of the paranoia, the chaos, the cacophony that is your thoughts. It's like a chord of clashing notes, out of tune. Like a bunch of words, printed one atop another, in different fonts and sizes and angles. Everything's making sense in a nonsensical way. And you just lay there, brows knotted, not knowing what you want, or rather, refusing to know. Like a musical box, stopping abruptly, awkwardly, in the middle of a phrase. You don't know, you don't know, you don't. Know. Yes, of course you do, you're a coward. And that's what they do, cowards, isn't it?