Her room was small. Her bed was small. Her life was small. And it didn't matter. She didn’t matter, nothing mattered. She was the black hole and the black hole was her, endless nothingness with no capacity for light. She didn’t know who came to her room, who left, who did what to her. She felt nothing; she spoke nothing; she saw nothing. She just stared at the cracked ceiling, recognizing the cracks within herself, widening, sharpening, lengthening. Purposeless. Endless. Lifeless.
