Madness string 24343

Random mermaid
In spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody. The essential substance of every thought and feeling remains incommunicable, locked up in the impenetrable strong-room of the individual soul and body. Our life is a sentence of perpetual solitary confinement.
Every Halloween, my mom would send me to the dead pile to get bones to scatter around the yard for decorations. I never really realized it was weird that we had things called 'dead piles', but there you go.