there is no story here, only whips and snaps of something that has leaked through, that has made an impression, that has been butchered beyond recognition. you cannot see what is here, a funhouse mirror at best, only the distortion of noise where the signal found is your own. i am my own and only, as ever have been, this lonely fucking place, where there is no sound other than the roar that defined me as a child and set me apart, the curious detachment that i have lived this all before, nothing ever comes as a surprise, even the happy moments, even in tragedy, nothing at all. just the sound of there having been something here at one time, the trace of a breath, the outline of a something better than this, all but gone except for this blood rush, this fucking maddening absence that spills over and over, shits on everything, breaks everything, shows me for what it is, how truly empty every moment, how devoid, how clean, unblemished, pure and eternal, this thing in me that has no home, that keeps me exposed to it all, that keeps me away from you. this is the true always and forever, my own and only, this lovely fucking solitude where i am most at peace in its silence, where only the noise for company and you will never be permitted to see.