Dead Cats Are Sane

Silence like a shadow crept over the crowd, like a chilling cloud floating under the sun, it gradually spread its darkness; the people were silent. And the madman laughed. He could not help himself. He howled, clutching at his sides, crying. All the rest were silent.

No one could leave, it seemed. They all stood there, shuffling on their feet. The smell, it was new to so many of them—they had never known. Silent, but for a murmuring madman who was doubled over as if in pain.

The silence stayed long after. It was made an hallowed site. Only the madmen would speak of what was there, or the sane would go mad to speak of it. Silence was the place, a place of silence, of heavy silence. It is said the birds will not sing there, the dogs will not bark; so the madmen say. The sane are dumb.

I fear to look myself, to see it, to draw near the silence. I fear it will crush me to be near it. The madmen say it fell to earth, and that it came through a fissure with hellfire, and that it was ever there eternally. The madmen speak these things. The sane do not speak of it, though they know it, or else why be silent?

It is said the birds will not sing in the silence, so the birds are sane. And the dogs are sane. Cats, ever contrary, I have heard the mad report, though known for their silent nature are greatly troubled by it, and run screaming at the smell of it or die at the sight. So, seeing makes them sane.

Silence ever broadens its boarders, and I cannot retreat forever. I most assuredly will face it, will know what is that unspeakable thing. Will the sight make me sane?

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