mineturtle-prime

　 "Is something wrong Brother? What troubles you?" Her muted reply comes from afar, as if through a heavy curtain. Her voice is familiar . . . and yet it is tinged with . . . what? Concern? It is so hard to . . . tell. Quick as a blink, the world ceases it's murky, sick tint and his eyes burn with terrible clarity. Hyper-sensitivity shatters mind and body like thin glass, and inwardly he writhes at the searing cuts. A breath of wind is a scream. The sandy street grinds his feet away. Colors . . . they burn the eyes. He stifles a moan as his brain is struck with a violent ache. He totters, nerves on fire. He feels every scratch on