pure as a pain of ice

whenever the periodic silence settled, she would twitch her head and blink her eyes - child-like - that would behold me in such earnest. was she silently beseeching me to speak, to ward off and protect her from that inaudible, invading noise, or was she pleading for that phosphorescent quiet to still, i could not know. then, she would close her eyes and give her head a little violent shake. to sober me from reality, she said. and that was what she repeatedly did, to keep pulling herself away from the strokings of her own enthralling, but abysmal sub-conscious. to keep pulling herself away from the blinding, numbing, darkness.

it like what plath said -- floating through the air in my soul-shiftpure as a pane of ice. it's a gift.