I hear her, each night, singing prophecies and portents to the blackness – we are separated, her and I. By her mad dreams and her warbled proclamations, of cities in the sky and of bridges ever burning.
She hears me, each day, muttering into my little device, talking about her prognosis, about psychosis and phobias. She cannot understand me. Or cares not too.
She reached out to touch my hand.
Does she not know who I am?
The Temple is falling, she whispered. Broken men turning, ever-turning, inscribing their broken promises into the stone. Footsteps fail and the city falls!
Or does she think she can turn me?
The orderly shrugs his sullen shoulders.
The syringe will quiet her melodies.
And I smile, safe with the knowledge that no-one will know.
That tonight, the Temple will finally fall.