Soft things gently disturb my mind.
Routine has slipped away, the foundation and the habit have gone. I am floating in a fiction.
Parts of me have been thanklessly hacked and discarded. Ultimately despised for worn out imperfections.
I listen again and again to voices and emotions from 70 years ago. All that energy, that belief in the importance of a time and a place.
The voices have died, the time and place have long gone. The characters they describe were never real.
So why do I feel like this? Why do I keep listening?