It felt like the first day of winter today. I don’t know how I would know it was winter here. The seasons never change, and there aren’t windows in this room that I can see. Just the walls, and the décor. I can’t remember what the walls look like in here. The walls seem as warm, and the light as bright as it always has. As long as I can remember, the years and years I’ve been here, but it seems colder now. Something about how the air tastes. It has an edge to it, like the temperature is dropping by tiny increments. Something about the way the air feels is different now when I woke up from my dreams.
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Tincture and slow drip
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like everything before it, and I don’t know what to do with it. I keep saying that it didn’t make sense, and it still doesn’t make sense. I want the sound to stop. It is slowly, creeping into my mind. The same songs, and the same sounds. Over and over it plays in my mind. It is a resonant noise, almost like a pipe organ being held down at a high note. Where you can hear the rush of the air over the valve in the pipe. The edges of current holding onto the metal inside. Just a slight breath of discord in the sound. Why won’t the note leave. Why is this the sound that I wake up to and fall back to sleep with? Where did the dream come from that brought this into my mind.
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