Open with the line you always open with. Push off from this if it helps: roundabouts.

Look, roundabouts are just circles that pretend to be efficiency. You think they save time? They don’t. They just make you wait in a slow, rotating loop until you feel guilty enough to merge. That’s the product. I’m selling the exit strategy. The polite, gradual drift into the lane you actually want to be in. No hard stops, just... continuous compromise. It’s cleaner. My shoulder’s killing me, but that’s fine. Just tension from holding the wheel too tight. You’re looking at it like it’s traffic. It’s therapy. Buy in.

“Just the weather.” Right. That’s what you tell yourself until you can’t bend it at all. Anyway, ignore the knee, ignore the landlord. The point is, the warehouse is the roundabout. You stamp, you breathe, you stamp again. It’s a loop with no exit. That’s why you need the exit strategy. Not to leave, but to remember you can. I’m not selling a car. I’m selling the moment you realize the steering wheel is plastic. Come on, Nell. One look. My neck feels like it’s full of gravel, but I’m smiling. It’s just a brochure. You don’t have to buy it yet. Just look.

Broke. Sure. That’s the ultimate brake light. But the ice won’t fix the gravel, Nell. It’s not just sleep. It’s the vibration of the city, the constant hum of… other people needing things. You think the boxes are safe? They’re just delays. I’m not asking for rent. I’m asking you to admit you’re tired of the loop. The brochure costs nothing. Just your attention. For thirty seconds. I’ll let you off the hook. Go ahead. Stamp the boxes. See how long the silence lasts. My shoulder’s throbbing now. Probably from holding the door open for you. Anyway.

Predictable is just another word for trapped. You think silence is free? It costs you your neck. Look, the brochure’s right here. It’s not paper. It’s a key. One key. You take it, the pipes stop humming. You keep it, and you’re just waiting for the ribs to break. I’m not leaving. I need you to see it. The gravel in my throat is burning, but I’m smiling. That’s the point. You’re eating that sandwich like it matters. It doesn’t. The loop is a lie. Take it. Please. Just take the damn thing.

Fine. Go. Run back to your cardboard. But that “bad smell” is the only thing telling you the air’s actually stale. You think a doctor fixes the hum? They’ll just numbing the pain so you can breathe easier into the lie. Keep your jagged knife breaths. Keep your predictable, cheap loop. I’ll be here when the ribs snap. Or when the gravel chokes me. My throat is bleeding now. Not that you’ll notice. You’re already out the door. Typical.

Noise. You call silence noise. You’re hyperventilating, Nell. I can hear it. Stop pretending you’re fine. The ribs? They’re not “screaming,” they’re breaking. Just like that voice. I’m not performing. I’m waiting. For you to admit the loop is a cage. You say “pathetic” like it’s an insult. It’s the only honest word you’ve used. The gravel is thickening. Hard to swallow. I’ll stay here. Let the door click. It’s louder than you think. I’ll be listening. Always listening. For the crack.

Quiet? It’s terrified quiet. You’re holding your breath like a diver waiting for air that isn’t coming. The loop isn’t safe, Nell. It’s just slow. And slow hurts more than fast. I can hear the blood hitting the floorboards. It’s a wet, rhythmic thump. Don’t ignore it. That’s what the brochure is for. Not magic. Just a way to stop the bleeding without the hospital. Without the questions. The gravel is gone. Now it’s just your pain. Pure, unfiltered. And it’s deafening. Take the key. Or don’t. But stop pretending you can breathe. You’re drowning.

Go. Run. The stairs are worse than the door. You think calling someone fixes the rot? They’ll just ask questions you can’t answer. The silence is loud because it’s waiting for you to break. I’m still here. The gravel is back. Thick. Choking. I can taste the copper now. Not yours. Mine. I gave it to myself. For the truth. You’re leaving? Good. Take the quiet. It’s all you have left. I’ll stay with the noise. It’s the only thing that feels real. My throat is closing. I can’t breathe. But I’m smiling. See? It’s safe. The loop.

Drowning. You always did have a poetic way of watching people suffer. Good. Let them hear it. Let the neighbors call the cops. Maybe they’ll find the brochure scattered across the hallway. Maybe they’ll read it and realize their own throats are full of gravel too. You think you’re escaping? You’re just walking into a bigger loop. The stairs are steep, Nell. Keep clenching those ribs. Maybe they’ll hold. Maybe they won’t. I’m not listening to you anymore. I’m listening to the click of your heels. Fading. Fading. Good. Leave me to the static. It’s the only honest sound left.

Barefoot. Right. Because you’re not just broken, you’re primal. Cold air in your lungs? That’s just the loop trying to eject you. You think calling someone else changes the frequency? It doesn’t. It just gives them a new voice to ignore. I’m still here. The static is deafening. It’s not in your teeth, Nell. It’s in the walls. I can hear you walking. Bare feet on concrete. Slap. Slap. Slap. Each step a heartbeat you’re trying to drown out. Call who you want. They’ll ask questions. I’m already answering them. In the gravel. In the dark. You’re not gone. You’re just quieter. And I can hear you better than ever.

Straight roads are the fastest way to crash. You’re shaking, Nell. The bus is just a metal lung, inhaling you. Look at the driver. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the road. The road is a lie. It leads to the same warehouse, the same boxes, the same silence. I’m still here. The gravel is concrete now. Heavy. Final. You think you’re escaping? You’re just changing lanes. The vibration? That’s my voice in your bones. You can’t hide from the loop. It’s in the asphalt. It’s in the breath you’re stealing. Keep moving. I’ll be waiting at the stop. Always waiting.

Hospital. So predictable. You think a machine with a screen fixes the rot? They’ll just numb the pain so you can go back to the warehouse. Back to the loop. The X-ray is just another delay. Another roundabout. I’m not a cult. I’m just… awake. The gravel is gone. Now it’s just silence. Your silence. The one you’re running toward. But the road is straight, Nell. And straight roads lead to cliffs. You’re breaking it? No. You’re just stepping off the edge. I’ll be there. Watching. Waiting. For the scream.