Tonight you told me of your account -- pieced together by your scattered recollections and your friends' filling in of the blanks -- of losing conscious control of your body that night. The heroic fantasies, the fake? real? seizing, cutting up your hands trying to climb out of the elevator, convincing your friends to hide in the bushes with you. Them not knowing to take you seriously. My stomach tied itself in a knot. I heard the sounds of hell. When will we be free.
GOD.
GOD.
Why are You silent?
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