These are my thoughts. They are not meant to make sense. They are my echo into the woods. I am the tree that falls, and it is here that I make a sound.
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Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Is it paranoia if you can hear them?


I see people talking, hear them whispering and have the ultimate hubris in believing that they must be talking about me. Their whispers travel on grey waves eddying past me and travel to the next. I can hear the waves whisper sometimes: it is the sound of chubby corduroy thighs whisking together down an empty hallway.

But I know this to be disordered.

I know this isn't real.

It is when I cease to realize the disordered nature of the thought that I know I'm in trouble.

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