and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

The silence I hear behind all these computers - whir, *buzz*, spin, silence - my ears deafened like a mad man bludgeoned to death for crimes as yet uncommitted - the silence is loud, and it is real. On a lazy, overcast, wet, and drizzly day of a Sunday like today it's all I can do to keep from yelling out: just to hear a voice that does not originate from one electronic box or another. But out of my head, when the words leave me, it's like they're trying to escape and when they leave they don't look back. These aren't kids leaving home with nostalgic memories of their childhood, marching off to college to grow up and do good things, save the world.. These are prisoners, this is a jailbreak.

This, maybe, is why they refuse to gel together into properly formed sentences or cohesive thoughts. This, perhaps, is why they present more of a pile of broken glass than a stained glass window. They're angry and refuse to conform. Fight the system. I'm the system. I don't blame them.. but I keep my mouth shut anyway.

Tap. click. type. pound. the keys snap down against their switches cranking out ideas almost as rapidly as they are created in the kilns of my thought. They're presented red-hot on the screen, the phosphorus glowing brightly. But with the backspace key as my sword I strike them down, one by one, these useless jumbled piles of thinking parts. I can't stand it, this silence screaming in my head. I can't let it speak. I just can't let it speak.