January 17th, Year 22

The voices are never satisfied with the destruction they cause. They never grow hoarse, or lose their potency. But if they ceased their rapid fire attacks, I believe I would find myself lonely. My life has always been turbulent, from within and without. It is the noise that both disturbs and soothes. It is the familiar, even when heavy with toxicity, that makes it feel safe to proceed. I am used to the poison, and the illness it produces. I know how to keep myself warm in cold weather. I know where to seek shelter in a storm. Peace is a foreign affair.

January 17th, Year 22

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