With the constant, constant, constant noise; the people, the movement, their glasses. I clean and I bustle, cry and move, back and forth. Back and forth. Wooden floors and overflowing beer, again, another year. For forty hours, for eight or twenty. I come home and it is never quiet. The people and their words, the books come alive and eat at my walls. I wanted to build walls. But I can never just be quiet. Even friends, even family, they are too loud. My classes and the sea, which I rarely get to see, they too are too loud. I hunt for quiet, but I just hear clang clang clang. As I drop and I break and my head it bleeds, it tips and my nose rips open. It isn’t last year, is it, but the memory of that clings still to my aching bones and I drop. In sleep I am not quiet, I talk and I whistle and the wind wraps itself around my ears. Five more minutes, please, before the alarm bells ring again.


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