memoirs of a madman

December 18, 2005

It is 1153hrs, and after a rushed shower the lights are out and a hush falls across the entire building. All is calm, and all is bright: all, except for a desperately sobbing boy who cannot find the tears to cry, and he plunges his head into his jacket because the pillow is rank and reeks of seat and tries to stay the sounds. In his ears the uncomfortable earphones play the breathy orisons of Bjork’s Medulla, whose purely vocal tracks, and whose pure voice, comforts him with the idea that he is not the only one whose world is going insane and turning upside-down: in music things can be so right even when they are so wrong.

He spins and spins, unable to find rest because of the horrific knowledge that tomorrow the sun will shine again and nothing will have changed: until he finally stumbles onto a foothold of a memory which comforts – Californian weather, smiling faces, lovely fresh cream, anything – and steps up into somewhat-sleep, to await the inevitable dawn.

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