Sometimes I can hear the wind rise up off the ocean, even thought it's miles away. The flag blows in the breeze, unimportant footsteps crunch the wet sand that melted February storms left on the roadside. I can hear it - the wind - as it blows through natural, unseen wind chimes far above me. Cars pass, people I know, but I lean against my house, shivering softly, and the misty rain hides me while I write. Rain that doesn't smudge my words, but makes the leaves from last autumn glisten like dull, taupe lanterns. And the air smells of old caves and rotten wood, but it's cold, and I like the way it wraps around my heart with a seldom tasted flavor, so I inhale it deeply. I want to be afraid. I want my eyes to search the shadows for things that aren't there. I want my mind to think of insane laughter when I hear a tree branch scrape against the roof. A cat approaches and meows piteously. "Ah, you, too, have been cast out to face the night?" And when it sees the wild, strange look that I know must be in my eyes, it slinks away to find shelter elsewhere. For I must be insane to write so quickly with fingers I can no longer feelin in a handwriting that is no longer mine. I must be insane to be so alive.