is that it has no source. The music is coming entirely from within my head. Typically I would hear music in an air filter or water circling the drain. Now it comes entirely from inside my head, where clogged ears and roaring tinnitus seem to make this previously-hidden rampage of endless folk music rise up from my inner sanctum, my inner cmposer. I keep looking for where this music is coming from but I can’t turn fast enough. It’s like chasing my own shadow, or tail. Now I’m hearing the breass players take over while the bass drums and cymbals keep up the bedrock of noise.
Some moments my head feels calm, but then tidal waves rise up. It’s like a big sugary-shaken cavity vehicle. When something can occupy my mind I’m OK. I just read a crazy poem from an old (1816) newspaper. America Old, I sometimes say, extending a conceit started by an ex many years ago who lamented the American belief that any of our artifacts are “old.” Go to Egypt if you want old.
The poem is about someone craving death, and the comfort of the grave, “FOR THERE’S NO SICKNESS IN THE GRAVE!”
The music in my head seems to have stopped. The Interstate of Tinnitus is even calming down.
