They rise up everywhere, now.
Some political. Sone familial. Some still preaching a futile resistance to impending doom.
I guess we can yet be forgiven our jealousies. Our crankiness. Even our fears of nothingness. But insane anger is just some poor substitute for a predetermined sense of abandonment. And your constant five alarm panic now works better on me than any pair of noise canceling headphones could ever hope to match.
Even when I hear your voice, I can’t make out your words. I never really could.
I’ve been too busy manufacturing my own.
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