It was at night, in the dark, on a quiet street with only an old apartment building, and the dark seemed to enter the very cracks of the old walls when I felt it. It wasn't an urge that came on suddenly. It was a slow swell of warm water that filled my head, and when it did it wasn't like holding my nose and forcing it down, but like dropping my head, shoulders hunched and letting my chin water. I tried to fight it, but it was more than that. It was a panic. I could feel my body dissolving, my skin going slack, my muscles begging me to release them. It was that moment of uncertainty when you think you've done it, when the vomit comes, when you think you're about to break the surface and blow it all back up again, into the frigid night, back into your body. A white-hot rage broke over me and I ran from the room. I was down the hall before I knew what I was doing. I threw open the bathroom door and turned on the light. It was everywhere, the marble white became an amber-like yellow. What have I done? There's just so much. I can't begin to fathom what would happen if someone were to find out.