This morning, the voices were killing me. But they’ve always been there and often no problem, at all. I’m grateful.
But this morning, the voices were cutting me up. That doesn’t show on the map of my face, but the wounds are wet and throbbing, and who it is speaking is often not clear.
But this morning, the voices were massing with pitchforks, like for some Transylvanian hoedown. What were you thinking, asks one, and then they’re coming so fast,
so hostile the questions—
Did you mean to be so cruel?
To whom did you think you were speaking?
What is the statement that lurks in your question?
What did you think would happen?
How dirty will you get if you do it that way?
Who did this, was it you?
How did you get what you do not deserve?
Will you confess?
When will that happen?
Ad nauseum, ad nauseum, ad nauseum, ad mortem—
jumping in the car a better idea. Traffic’s Empty Pages the theme, but I do got something to show, and I’m carefully keeping the first commandment of motoring—
rubber side down. And the voices grow still.