Until the jack-in-the-box thunder-clap ever pops at the inappropriate time. Unfair, the searing pain, the shrill scream of abject terror, dreams disintegrate in a relentless rain of tinkling glass. Each shard becomes a razor-edged missile, surgical in the violent hands of butchering circumstances. There are no familiar words for this overwhelming fear. Gulping for air as the official countdown begins, Brutally crushed by the tyranny of urgent need. Impossible solutions are desperate, all needed yesterday. And finally, when the excessive bleeding staunches, the clap sounds again louder & more demanding; and for those who neglect to pray, terror is their terrible food. Yet, for those who do, and cry out, a dread reminder that we always imagine that we're equipped. Falsely, we suppose --guess, --think, --we feel --presume, until ------- the clown pops.