Intersting how the little men with hammers inside your head coexist with the demons... in equilibrium, neither jostling for space, but each content with its own time on centrestage, spotlight, manipulating the rest of you with a shockingly easy panache, till your world tilts. Maybe it is the thought of packing that brings on the panic attack. Wishful thinking. The knot in my stomach absorbs the dull thud of my heartbeat. The Red Dahlia deeply unsuitable reading for a mind not in equilibrium, as is the minging weather. My calm demeanour seems to harness my heartbeat in the hollow of my throat, amplifying it, the reverberations ringing in my ears. A part of me wants to curl up and never move again, while the other keeps an eye on the clock, urging me to discard the chocolate silk for a more practical tracks and t-shirt. An hour to establish a victor.
The numbers float in front my eyes as my fingers put them in their proper places, operating on autopilot. It offers to assistance in ordering my mind, and my thoughts continue to wreak havoc like shards of broken glass.
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