I am the icicle on the roof, built thick and bubbly at its base and narrowing to a pike's slit at its end. Building like emotion- all broad at the beginning, all gently falling away as time leaves on, until there is nothing huge and mind-sweeping to feel. Towards the end, when the hours have melted like spare sweat off the icicle, it's impossible to see everything at once, the origin of it all like the base of the icicle. There's... slipping down to the tip. The sharpest slice of the icicle comes at the very end. When you can remember only the thinnest section of what came before.

No more emotions, no more sweeping power, no more huddling into a quivering ball, trying to keep a fishhook from dragging out your soul through the mouth. There is- one image. The one image that everything else drips off of, and the only section that can splinter a skull in half. Pain is cold and ripping. And sharpest when you can't remember why you feel it in the first place.