Response

Alone. Monologuing for x years, 365.25*x days, 365.25*24*x hours, divided further
Radio silence so loud it consumes every days thoughts like the piercing shrills of any sound influenced by opium derivatives. Long last, the speaker turns to a potential difference and I hear myself stepping off a carousel, and giving a response with linearity. More than myself speaking, I have people around me saying we can help, and I see further people in the distance waiting on time to elapse before helping me. Yet there are no jovialities. Every action keeps me gliding.
My room has become a charicature. I think I have no choice but to rearrange it lest it further become a meme. More a Faustian endeavour than Kafkaesque. Except the deal I make is with myself. To cut off my horns, and flay goats fur from tender flesh.