I’m a mess of a man, my mind a swirling twirling thing, some days are clatter, some are din, some are the residue of echoes in voices not my own. Sounds bombard me, food being chewed across a room like jackhammer to the concrete in me, like earthquake and I’m 3/4 Jello, trying to hold it together. I’m 10,000 radios on 10,000 different stations, each at full volume surrounding me, enveloping me in such racket that I can no longer hear my own breath, no longer listen to the steady beat of my own heart. You know I’ve always worried of my breath. This is the life I know, and I tell you this not for sympathy or plea for understanding, I tell you so some semblance of sense can be made for that mess of me, an explanation without the buy one get one free offer for excusal. It’s noise, and it’s always, and I’m stuck in the middle, but sometimes, some lucky times, there is music.
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