The past few days my mind has been in a panic. It is as though my internal being, all of the machines and clocks it runs by, all of the dreams and visions it sees, and all of the natural processes it should know, have somehow left its' memory. Here I am on the outside, with little control of the inside, trying to orchestrate life and motion all on my own. As I fall asleep I think to myself "where would the nob that turns down my volume a little be"? I am pretty sure my insides believe that what they are going through isn't real. It is as though they are going through their own unrealistic protest as they would in a dream.
As far as the outside me? It is enjoying a quiet week in Dormans Park. Long walks in vast fields. Being creative with Helen and crying at old musicals. Lots of tea.
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