Literature:

The reader as the Sartrean "Other"

A cool night that smells of smoke. The cars, the key around your neck, the lock at your fingertips. That taste in your mouth, like sulfur.
Too much, too little, not enough, nothing. The stars, the night breathing like an animal. Chimes at the door, the thick, honeyed sounds.
Like my heart could shake itself free from my chest.