There is a moment in my memory that has been lost to time between that faithful meeting between me and God. It's a hole. A hole in a sponge. But on the other accounts lie on what was on the other side of that hole, from the meeting to what was beyond it. I was shaken severely by that incident, and to others' accounts of myself, babbled a spiritual nonsense in the hospital beds all night and most of the day, only pausing for the basic needs of life. I was not released until the psychosis had left me, and even so, what came down upon the hole said episode had left in me was a great grief for the redhead, smashed, slammed against the seafloor beyond my very eyes. She was young. She could've done anything with that life, but she served one mission, and it was fufilled swiftly and with violence. The noise of the crunch. Tragedy. Nothing to send back to the family body-wise, for otherwise, they would've died of the shock. Mangled. Mangled and crushed. Smashed and slammed.

But what I had said while in that episode beforehand had also touched the hearts of those who had heard it. Apparently, others came to visit, mostly the old, believing myself as a prophet who could speak to God. I fed them what they wanted, they went on with their day.

I still don't really know what was in that hole, but I guess that was it. An episode of unhinging. But this head is surely on its hinge again. Hopefully.