It's quiet in here. So quiet...
So of course the first thing I did was turn on the stereo. Bach's organ works. Yummy.
Last night, behind my eyes: A ballet dancer, pirouetting, in the midst of a giant eye ringed with flame. Sauron has a ballerina in his pupil.
But that was overshadowed by the flock of paper cranes. Someone had rather cleverly folded them feet...and they came gliding along, beaks and little paper talons all bloody, like some sort of demented origami rendition of The Birds.
Sometimes, I wonder if my subconscious is just trying to fuck with my conscious. Maybe I should send it to therapy, while I stay home and study. Teach it to send homicidal paper cranes into my head, yeah!
If I were my subconscious, I'd rather be in therapy than studying. If I were my subconscious, I'd campaign for electroconvulsive therapy, just to be really pissy. If I were my...
...It's too quiet in here. It's way too friggin' quiet in here. *turns up Bach until the couch vibrates* If I had five minutes alone with my subconscious, I'd give it a sucker. An opioid sucker. A good big one, so that it'd stay sedated for a very long time.
And I have to study now.