"I won't mean it," Cassandra frowned, and for a moment she sounded more lucid. "It's only that sometimes... things become... confused. I never wanted to hurt-"
Then she tilted her head and her eyes took on a more distant look. "They live inside your walls like mice," was what she said, walking over to press her ear against it. "Scritch, scritch, scratch, stories not ready to be torn from clay and put to words. One day they'll be words and we'll devour them until our bellies ache from their richness."