I must have been a stonemason in a past life.

I'll build myself a house, not a home but maybe a prison, and when you start hurling things... I can hear them hit the wall and fall uncermemoniously to the ground. I throw things at you too. I'll throw my body at you and it'll end up on the ground in a broken heap, but it was worth a shot... Wasn't it?

Crash. Crash. Crash.

When I hear you shouting I can hear the muffled words, but they will need to travel through the stone and the meaning may change. I'll raise my voice and yell through the stone, "What did you say? Please say it again... for the love of God, keep talking. No matter the meaning of the words, your voice has enough meaning for me, for you, for us."

And when I hear a rustle and the scrape of skin on stone, I'll press my overheated body to the frigid stone and pretend I am touching, embracing you. There's nothing but harsh breath and soft whispers that are lost in translation, but the feeling... The feeling wraps itself around me and brands itself into my being.