You wrap up the gash with a dirty bandage. You know this is a horrible idea, but between bleeding out and an infection, you seem to think the latter preferable. You haven't had a thought in days. You haven't had a conversation in months. You haven't had a dream in decades.

When we're in danger, we become beasts of instinct. Panic leads only to death. Fear leads only to panic. Thought leads only to fear. Abandoning higher function to prevail is a solid trade, but who in their right mind would ever make that choice? You're you. I'm me. You only come to me when you can't seem to do the dirty work yourself.