I don't want to go outside.

I want to remain forever here, beneath the blankets, cocooned within the safety of my quilt.

I've been dressed all day long, waiting for special things.

Now special things have come up, and I want to participate, but I feel sick by the thought.

The energy of other people exhausts me.

I am a tiny pink sponge, I absorb their excitement, stretching and filling to the brim. But sponges can only hold so much.

Fear might be the death of me; fear leads to anxiety; don't know what's inside of me - don't forget about me