Hiding in the basement. Reading everything I can. It's a lot to take in. What happened. The aftermath. The craziness. The lingering fear. I'm still spooked, even if I wasn't hurt. At least the books offer hope. As do the folks of whitechapel. Things can get better, perhaps. At least now, unlike childhood, I have people who support me, stuff to read to help me get mind around things. The family says I shouldn't spend money, but written words....have been my way as much as art has of making sense of things. Like art, it's a non threatening way of learning and figuring crud out. I need words. Books. Art.