I'm lying here in silence, staring at the ceiling. Only it's not really silent. The stillness is broken by squeaking of the ceiling fan, its unbalanced blades move the base in a small circle. That and the hum of this contraption, this box that, at the same time connects me and separates me from everyone; even myself.
I find a small stalactite of paint and I begin to wonder how it came to be. The vast planes of white semigloss interrupted by a tiny inverted mountain. Are there fault lines behind the surface of the ceiling? Perhaps my ceiling is a new "Pangaea." Then I remember how I ended up in my bed in the "silence" staring up, wishing I could see the clouds.