Braille-reader, do you see me now? Is there a hair, at all, standing up at the back of your neck when you see this stranger's name?

I haven't cared much for a while, but in the past couple of weeks, an anchor cast of your mettle has sunken through the pit of me and I find myself drowning all the other thoughts out. I just don't want it to get quiet. Then my fingers will find you in some fashion or another and wrap themselves around an invisible future full of toxic fantasy. A house made of tarot cards tempting fate to lash out swiftly and leave nothing in its wake. I'm sure you feel the same.