Apologia.
It's one here, but only eight where I should be. I'm listening to Post-hardcore, but the volume is the quietest it can be without being silent. Angry, angsty music in a whisper.
I still hear a nagging siren just barely outside the rim of conscious thought. It's like when you feel a stare, but no one's there (no one but the little invisible demon-imp creatures that like to keep you on your toes).
Am I really hearing a klaxon, or are my battered ears inventing sounds to recreate the familiar lullabies of Flint, Michigan?
It's the million-dollar query, just like this other one that has been bugging me for the last month: Am I happy, or am I not happy?
Ah, but the greatest irony of all must be not to be able to trust your own body.
My eyes hurt, I think I'll stop typing now. I'll know next month. Maybe. It won't bother me for as long as it takes me to figure it out.
I still hear a nagging siren just barely outside the rim of conscious thought. It's like when you feel a stare, but no one's there (no one but the little invisible demon-imp creatures that like to keep you on your toes).
Am I really hearing a klaxon, or are my battered ears inventing sounds to recreate the familiar lullabies of Flint, Michigan?
It's the million-dollar query, just like this other one that has been bugging me for the last month: Am I happy, or am I not happy?
Ah, but the greatest irony of all must be not to be able to trust your own body.
My eyes hurt, I think I'll stop typing now. I'll know next month. Maybe. It won't bother me for as long as it takes me to figure it out.