You can say what you want about the folks in this town, he intoned, but there’s nothing more intriguing in the world than the secrets they know,

and they don’t go to sleep until the last person has warned them,

and I don’t care how paranoid you get about carbon monoxide,
you cannot leave your window open at four in the morning, not in the city or anywhere else

But with the way I felt sick to my stomach, the headache coming on, isn’t it reasonable
I mean isn’t it reasonable to worry about all of these things? And as for intrigue,
I don’t think I’m curious at all.  My life has been far too full of excitement,

so, actually, I just want quiet.

What’s the good in that?

Who knows.  What’s the good in noise? I never figured it out.  So, I thought, why not

quiet.  But then he looked very serious, very grim, when,
with indeterminable intent,
he closed and latched the thing

And what could you possibly have found so exciting? What nonsense did you ask for? as if it ought to be nonsense,
and secrets ought to be known, and sleep to be had.  So instead, here’s my question for you:

If you could, would you put all your fears
worries, insecurities, heartaches
nightmares, illnesses
sins and tribulations
into a box under the bed

never ever to live again? could you speak of it all then?