in which the story is continued with help from the cracks in the ceiling

you don't, i whisper. she knows this. she's forgotten. the harmonies of the thrums are so seductive. the fundamental frequencies will never be anything but what they are. you may cry salt tears or blood tears, it is ok, girl who tries not to feel.

you have to change. you. the thrumming will be there, forever. you have to decide how to feel it.

it's me, she says. there are cracks in the paint in the ceiling. she follows them with her eyes until they converge. i have to decide. 

the answers are there, she says. the answers are obvious. i will choose not to feel the safe one's need. i will choose to, well. what about that single frequency, that soft old one, the nostalgia? a safe frequency within the thrum of a corpse. 

the ceiling has no answer. the sunlight is not enough to answer through the clouds of snow.

me, i was made in the sun and i fade in the sun. i cannot hold her any longer. she has the answers now. She must look the weak sun in its face, find the ghost of a friend, transform herself.