Nine cubes. Two stories. Easter weekend imminent.
Once you were the apple of my eye (!), but it didn't take long for you to fall from grace like a wayward start (it's not your fault, really; I suffer from borderline personality disorder). You claim to have dealt squarely with me, but if we examine your behaviour more closely, it feels like you only let me into the tiniest part of your life. Is that square dealing, I ask? Granted, there's a lunatic with twitchy hands living in my mind. I'll have to weigh the pros and cons a bit more.
Tom lived a carefully managed life and kept a quiet house, but by night he would sneak outside and stand in his backyard, watching carefully for the quiet shadows of the evening to coalesce into some form that would confirm the suspicions that plagued him during the day, the insistent sensation that he was fundamentally wrong, that his life had twisted in some direction that he couldn't understand at the time and was now wreathed around some other shape that he had never perceived, but there it was, invisible but shaping his soul. Maybe he had been too rigid? He felt like he was waiting for a sign, something from the heavens that would direct him, the reassurance that someone was keeping an eye on human affairs. Some day I'll figure it out, he thought.