Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me there's a religious cult imprisoned in a mountain. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that, sealed under dirt and rock, falling pieces of the hillside engulfed in ruin trap my body, feet sticking out the bottom, twiddling toes, strangely satisfied. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that it's alright. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that I'm safe in prison, that no one can find me here. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that I'm sadder than I was when my mother died in her bedroom while I lost my virginity next door. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that I can get up tomorrow morning and keep from sobbing like a drunk purging his insides of a gallon and a half of bourbon. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that there's a pattern to the solid white snowblind. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that gospel choirs sing out of key on purpose in their praise of God. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me to bite down so hard that my teeth crumble to dust in my sweated palm. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me to shut up and mind my manners, to stop crying or I'll be slapped, to sit still and quit twitching, stop being a jerk, or I'll have love taken from me forever. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me to build a fort. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me when to stop building it, to keep myself from compulsively cleaning the same dirt from the same crack in the formica table where food and grease collect and nothing tells me that I should forgive myself for everything I've done wrong. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that there's an end to the words on the page, an end to the bad news reports, an end to the end, an end to the beginning, middle and end of nothing.