I found something. But when I spit out the feathers they formed themselves into wings, flew away, leaving me behind, staring, sad. There was Silence before the Word. Just as every scream stops, every scream started. The rest is also.
Silence outstares absence.
Absence is the scar the Scream left. Only the poem can do that. There is an untouchable absence in everything around me. But absence of puss. Stutterings from Nada News.