It's Just The Noise Of The Water Seeping Through The Hardened Ground
I locked my radio in the desk drawer and it kept on playing for sixteen years. Remember the psychiatrist who had a model of a ship in his therapy room? Nothing like that. Everything I said had been proven false, but the jury still heard it. I had fallen down the stairs but I did not die and I was not buried. But therefore I know. It was that time of winter when the towels get dry just by being in the house. If I could I would steal cakes off the tea tray, while the wonders of the world returned slowly, one by one. My moss intended to enjoy itself every day, in spite of the maddening drip-drip-drip you could hear from the ruined four-poster as well as the driveway.