Up in the ceiling, I hear things. Moans of the dead? Groans of the dying? Sad warbling words of those who will never be?
Or are they just motorcycle engines seeping in through the windows and drifting across the rafters, distorted by the bends and disruptions of physical continuity?
I may never know. Or I will know very soon. Or too late.
The sickening twist of heart and stomach soon follows.
