Set your head to the floor. Set each breath in time with the scraping sound you hear. All I want is to sleep. The light scoured out the shadows in our pupils. The swarm angels I know bring no peace; they are leprous, and pieces of their bodies rain down on our rooftops throughout the night, a random alert to break up the lulling monotony of the highway-bridge above us, a road we cannot reach. Further above was the flight path for planes leaving mid-international. There was rumor that under the floor, leading into the mountain, there was a network of caves where those with the pit sickness hide, but that cannot be, as they would fill with river-water, the river where their empty boats drift and sink.

the exit is hidden within the exit