The troubled page tries to turn itself with no luck.
The pictures I have drawn of bleeding faeries in the margins of the next page are barely visible. The man standing over me has no head.
He breathes on the back of my neck and watches me with his hands and heart.
He watches my every move. I've been told that sometimes men with no heads can hear your thoughts somehow, and possibly even read.
I want to dance, but he is watching me and would hurt me if I danced.
I want to dance but I am watching myself and would hurt the man with no head if I danced.
And this wouldn't bother me so much if it weren't for the many men, missing many heads that have always made me watch myself with their missing eyes.

This Way............................................................ That Way