Quiet. It's too quiet. So quiet it's louder than anything. That's a paradox. Quiet can't be loud except when it is. I don't like it here. The ground feels wrong. It's too steady but everything's shifting. It makes my head hurt. I need to be in the black. It's too solid here. Loud where it should be quiet and quiet where it should be loud. This is why you aren't supposed to meddle with things.
They meddle. They always meddle. Shouldn't meddle, but they do. Can't leave well enough and it all turns to dust and ash. Picking and picking. Tearing at the threads until it all comes apart. Just apple bits left. You aren't supposed to play with things like this. Threads are invisible, but they're stronger than steel and they'll choke you if you aren't careful. We're stuck. Tethered. A different center of gravity. Tried to leave but it hurt. Clawing in my brain like tiny pinching fingers. Digging in and stabbing with little knives.
Not safe. It's not safe to wander off alone, he says. But how can you wander when there's no one to wander from? Logical fallacies and paradoxes. Wandered because he isn't here, but can't wander because there isn't anyone to wander from. I'd follow the breadcrumbs back but there aren't any. The birds ate them all. They'll get stomachaches.