I slip in and out of volume, mind cycling into a particularly sweeping tremolo. Blasts of synaptic soundwaves, punctuated by pure desertion. Noise, space. Action, inertia. Motion, stagnancy. Vibration, static.
If only it were slightly more regular, one might read it for signs of some grand pattern in the chaos. Yet it is instead marked more by irregularity, uncertainty, and the occasional patterns where everything just sort of...stops.
I find myself lacking tether. Instinctively, I realize that bases exist, but where? It's not lost. Somewhere, I am sure, the knowledge resides. Where, though, might my center reside? I try to think where, but instead, I grind to another standstill.
My arms ache, but the causal labors in question escape me. My eyes seem to embody more weight than usual, as if they've seen things no one should see...but what? All I can feel is a certain time lapse spreading through my frontal cortex.
The blame can only reside in the nights and mornings.