19jan

nobody quite speaks to me anymore. i feel myself slipping and slipping -- sharp rocks on bloody hands.

there is a screen; there is a fog descending relentlessly. i am speaking in clichés, which are not always untrue.

there is a buzzing sound, perpetually. i think that it is real, but being uncertain is terrifying. it is constant, all around my head, the hum of something in circular motion. it's like a cross between a bassline lacking its interwoven rhythms and an unnerving amusement park ride.

there is a slow sheen of white noise in all of my conversations, i am tuned to half off of the right station, and everyone is fading in and fading out. i speak about my mother so much, about how she is not really here, and suddenly i wonder if i am not here at all.

i know full well there is really nothign to be said to things like this, no matter how much anyone may care; i don't know why i don't make these private if i must write them at all. i suppose it's the fingernails on the wall, screaming no, i am still here, somewhere, somewhere