This is not one of those nights to watch the thread unspool slowly—it is a night to circle the thread around your finger and pull. Yarn splitting beneath your fingers, spinning apart until it catches, at the very end, at a tight, unyielding knot.

No matter how much you might wish to keep unwinding, unspooling the depths of your soul into the empty cavern of your chest, can you not feel it?

There's a knot sitting just below your third and fourth rib. An exit wound, a breach, an incision. Can you not feel it winding and pulling and tugging and teasing your soul out of your body?

Aren't you scared that soon there's going to be nothing left?