oddnessmostly

I have said there is an illness in me which aches my ears with resonance and fevers the songs I sing or those I listen to for pleasure.

Again, this Demon of Echoes.

Even here there may come a rejection of sorts. This was to have been the abode of my rebellion. Foolish to think such fires might find sanctuary.

The weariness comes upon me of a sudden like and after hours of alertness. I have been on guard for angels. Elsewhere, I have spoken of how they do bedevil me and how they do. How do you do, I often wonder. For you are wondrous if existing at all. You are wondrous as all the angels, though if you were an angel you would be wisely fallen. I suppose redemption is a thing for humanity alone. I have never heard of an angel fallen then forgiven and redeemed.

The alterations that have occurred here cannot be all my doing. A certain tone had been achieved. That tone has faded. I would like to ask what the cause of this might be. There is no longer any context. No fabric. No thread. Certainly there can be no needle. Please. Please do not allow the needle to be. Were I to dance on the head of that infamous pin, how I would squash thee, O angels.

"When" is somewhat demanding as a question. It is a thing to contemplate, the power in a mark of punctuation. To think that there can be such a strong connection between these tiny symbols and the infinite, unconscious mindflow of the human species.