"Quit that."

"Quit what?"

"Talking like that. Are you schizophrenic? You're not on a stage."

"Never said I was. You're starting to frustrate me."

"Just being assertive."

"There's also 'ass' in 'assertive. I applaud your ability to multi-task."

"Very, very funny."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"No, not at all. It's hilarious. So much that laughing just kind of- er, passed by, if you will."
"Am I the only person who's ever had the urge to kill you so strongly?"

"Probably not. I'm a Musical Theatre major."

"I beg to differ."

"Hm?"

"Get out of my room."

"Again, you are how old this year? Want me to count it on my fingers?"

"While you can, dear."

There was a long pause. Neither of us had anything to do but stare into each other's eyes and think about how much we were passionately beset and undeniably enraged. Had it been an hour we were arguing like this? But the dialogue seemed so absolutely vital to the escalation between ourselves. Sweet little Paul was being a legitimate ass for the first time since the neighbor's boys nailed the collar of his shirt to a tree and wrote a song titled, respectively- "Not Tall Paul", in a surge of adolescent revenge for being the first among 8 year olds to get a grown-up bicycle. On the other hand, I felt no change in basic personality and expression, as I usually converse in this fashion. Yet its compatibility with Paul's nature were failing with every breath. Thinking this, I took a moment to look at Paul, and to read the rather legible process rolling within his brain, beneath his curly head of Faerie Floss, which quivered a bit- as his entire body was quivering- a tiny, pale man with painted eyes and a pink and freckled face, arms curled with blonde hairs, thighs from beneath denim shorts charcoal-coloured still though he's been away from the Theatre for 5 hours now. A striped sweater draped past his waist and wrinkled at his wrists, making him look plump and delightful though if you were to catch him from behind and pull up that woolen facade, it would be no more obvious that he's just a scrawny and runted puppy. I thought cynically about such event ever taking place in public. I thought cleverly about such metaphorical meaning. I thought for a long time, until Paul's feminine, pointed nose pressed into mine, but it wasn't friendly. It was almost a palpable animalistic implication. Violent.

"Quit that." he began again.

"Quit what?"

"You keep spacing out. I'd actually like to reach an ultimatum."
"I've got one." I backed up, containing myself, folding arms.

"Alright, then?"

"You get out of my room- er, perhaps I would get much-needed sleep. Then I'll kill you in the morning."

"Why is it me that needs killing?"

"First of all, you're in my room, under my roof, wormed aside my life- I am the victim here. Self-defence is key."

"Does it ever occur to you that you're not the only one wanting to defend themselves?"

"What am I doing to victimize you?"

"Gosh, I'm adorable. I get by."
"You're going to need more evidence than that."

Almost immediately after the words left my mouth, Paul was rocking himself back and forth, gnawing on his bottom lip, and making these small soft sounds like he just got out of an insanity treatment centre. I almost wanted to laugh, but then Paul was in my face again, his thick eyebrows knitted together in desperation, his teeth showing in a strain as he whispered,

"July, I've forgotten what we were arguing about in the first place."

"So have I, but just go with it."

"W-Wait, why-"

"Because it's keeping everything else at bay. It's nice."

"Well, it's not nice when we're just arguing for no reason."

"Shh. Yell at me, say something crazy."

"I just came in here to talk. What did I want to talk about? I wanted something."

"Shh. You're ruining the vibe.

"We're in Iceland. We built a snow cave in the hillside. This isn't your bedroom, it's the only place we are allowed."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Now get angry about it. It's my fault. Attack me, Paul."

"Or else we'd freeze to death. I'm wearing shorts. I'm cold."

I sighed in massive exasperation, falling onto my back and drilling my palms over my eyes. Reality has been so difficult to grasp these last few days. Of course, I had been seeing things, and after the ride from Great Britain- what with the men and with the people and with Tanni's Coffee Shoppe and the Smarties and were our Kombuchas laced with something? Oh God: it could have been anything. Wriggling my hips over the luggage we had packed in as a bed and pulling the stolen quilt over my chin, I retraced the events of the still continuing night. The men and the people and with Tanni's Coffee Shoppe and our Kombuchas must have been laced with something, or else I have become a schizophrenic. I'm seeing colours, I'm harbouring beasts.

"July, why have I forgotten that?"

"Your damn Kombuchas, I think."

"I'm cold. Can't you share that quilt? I'm in shorts."

"And a sweater."

"Can't you share that?"

"That's a thick sweater, and I'm in a shirt."

"And jeans."

"This quilt isn't large enough."

"Would you like me to die?"
"You've been fine 'till now- with all that thinking, you've burned out your internal heat."

"You can share a quilt, okay, can't you?"

"I can't. I'm cold, too, ya know."

"I'm so small."

"Are you saying I'm overweight?"
"I weigh less than 110 lbs."

"Good. Narrower center of gravity- friction, heat. You're fine. You're not dead."

"By morning, perhaps."
"Definitely by morning, but not by cold. You're trying my patience. Maybe I should nip this in the bud now."

"You're still on to that?"

"I've got some rope left over from that Warwick thing. We can make it fun."

"Not really in the mood to die right now, and I'm sorry you still think that."

"Is anybody?"

"Hm?"

"In the mood to die, ever?"

"You, perhaps."

All impulses to be satirical were rooted out from my mind at that last comment. My eyes narrowed at the small space

between myself and the rock-solid ceiling of pearly snow before me, and I saw static orbs dancing in every inch I conceived visually. Letting out a soft grunt, I rose back to a sitting position and leaned against the wall of the cave, letting the blanket droop by my waist. I couldn't see much. It was dark, for one, but also white and whirring and turning and breathing became exceptionally difficult.

"You, perhaps."

Was it true? Sure, I had issues growing up. Sure, I had depressive and anxious attacks. Sure, there's a file in New York's Presbyterian Hospital with my name on it, alongside the words 'Manic/Depressive', 'Bipolar 1', and 'Flight Risk'. Sure, doesn't everyone hear voices? Sure. But suicide or self-harm doesn't belong in such 'sure's. My blood boiled at the very notion. Sociological categorization, definition, individual destruction, loss of ethics purpose, political debasing, rhetorical prestigious figures, idols, cowardice, media, psychosis, hallucinations, needles and lights and towers upon gold, people seated upon thrones, grovellers, thieves, liars and fakers and haters and dead people who just look alive, who just act alive, who just flit their bodies about like a ghost inside their own heads, but why is it all just?

And when did it all begin?

"Goddammit." I gasped, my shaking fingers drawing shapes over my wrists, my cheeks wavering as I had been babbling

inaudibly, subconsciously, for the last minute and a half now, and Paul had said nothing. I ran my tongue over chapped lips, wiped a bead of sweat off of my temple with a quivering finger, and kicked the blanket off my legs as all of a sudden I was boiling.

"Look," Paul, seeing I was back to consciousness, cautiously moved towards me, visibly shaking as well, though I knew not if it was from the cold or basic fear, "I didn't mean anything by that."

I couldn't respond. My entire body rocked in a convulsion, teeth banging in reddened gums, ears coiling with steam, my breath entering and exiting rapidly; hyperventilation. I slammed my eyes shut and tried breathing correctly, but all the words and places and faces and numbers just came hither to- and I began collapsing in on myself in spastic, rushed movements of stretching and hunching over, until I was gagging and coughing and shouting at the air with immense force.

"Oh, god-" I heard Paul exclaim, and I felt cold skin meet mine.

"Off!" I screamed, writhing away from the feeling.

Paul wrestled me like a wrangler would a steer. He was shockingly able for such a tiny man, but sheer desperation and my current dilemma served to his advantage as he heaved his own body over mine, his lean legs drilling down over either side of my waist, which twisted and bucked as I tried to fight away. Two hands clasped themselves with mine, and twisted my arms to the small of my back. I wailed like a small child, panted and whined uncontrollably.

"Settle down, it's nothing." Paul, with all the self-control he could have possibly mustered, spoke softly and levelly into my ear, "breathe in, and count to 1."

I huffed prestigiously at first, and breathed in, counting in my head a tangible '1'. Shocked at my newfound power, I held my breath, having completed that task.

"Alright, good," Paul sighed, seemingly impressed, "now breath out and count to 1."

I did so, this time with more confidence. Biting my tongue to prevent hyperventilating again, I waited for further instructions- submitting completely to this given advice; something I had never done afore then.

"Breath in, count to 2. Breath out, count to 2." Paul, discovering his words had influenced myself, continued. I obeyed and found myself focusing less on the universe and more on the tallies that round themselves up on the walls of my mind, and more on the air that swam in and out between my teeth rhythmically

"Breathe in, count to 3. Breathe out, count to 3. Breathe in, count to 4. Breathe out, count to 4. Breathe in, count to 5. Breathe out, count to 5. Breathe in, count to 6. Breathe out, count to 6. Breathe in, count to-"

"Oh, are you kidding me? I can't hold my breath that long."

"You could, you just don't want to try."

"True, that."

With an emotional sigh, Paul released me and rolled off, back onto our luggage bed, to pull his knees to his chest, to bury his face in his hands, and to sleep.

After a moment of irrelevant clairvoyance, I joined him on the opposite side of our luggage bed, to stretch my limbs and to drag in a breath lasting 7 seconds, exhale one similar lasting 7 seconds, and to sleep- not even considering constituting the exercise onto literal terms until I would hold my breath for infinite seconds.

But this universe is finite. Funny, that.

I fell asleep and I stayed asleep for about an hour. Then I awoke and remained so for five and a half hours, sitting in a corner of the snow cave, burrowed in half of a hole, staring at the sky curiously through a thin sheet of snow; counting stars and asking questions. Paul, dear thing, was asleep for all of the night, and I was glad. He needed sleep, and he deserved it. I, however, deserved nothing- and that's what I received. I took the abyss gladly, drank the oblivion with gratitude.

The sky mystified me. It was black, but everything was visible. The snow and ice rounded itself around in a convex shape beneath the sheer fabric that was the darkness of the air. Space seemed to be kissing, even explicitly licking and moaning into the bowl of the North, stars racing past my eyes in an explosion of philosophical romanticism between our galaxy and a lonely planet. My eyelids grew strained, as if two screws had been drilled into each socket, bound to each star with twine. I leaned forward and gaped, just letting myself drift between consciousness and open-eyed sleep, nestled in the bosom of the dark and powdered sky.

"You should get some sleep." Paul whispered in my direction after a while.

"Busy." I snapped.

"What are you even doing out there?"

"Watching."
"What, exactly?"

"Everything, I guess. It's pretty."

"Everything?"

"The Universe. Where did it come from? Why does it go through all the bother of existing?"

"Don't ask questions like that."

"Why not?"

"You're easy to set off."

"You're one to talk."

"I don't think I need to spell metaphysical existentialism for you."
"Well, I see you are familiar with my studies. You listen. Good thing."

"Shut up, alright? Just get some sleep."

"You're the one in my room."

A melodramatic pause.

"I'm not in your room."