Waking hours I am conductor, coaxing independent instruments with wandering keys and reeds to crash into passable music.
Asleep my head is pure unfiltered noise, now with more pulp. Reckless unarmored, a slow motion owl-masked me stencils the first truth: hell is empty and all the devils are here.
No: come on baby light my fire.
No: so quick bright things come to confusion.
No: will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
No: O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
No, it’s not noise, it’s the complexity and conspiracy theory of a $20 bill, occult symbols clunking up against the head of throwback Jackson keeping scholars and hobbyists and anyone with a reliable internet connection busy for years. The decoding will continue until children are hatched, or a UFO lands and offers a cheap hands-in-the-air ride before fucking up LA, or they simply run out of time.
At night my head is two shotguns pointed at each other, distracted by a toddler with a fistful of daisies and a ring jumping dolphin that alters aim.
My head is a mirror in a mirror in a mirror, a single spinning prism twisting out rainbows and confusing the faeries operating (just) underneath.
My head is draped in white and black and purple and violet then white and black and purple again. Seven veils, always aware of their presence and the buffer they grant my six eyes from the light of Waking World. Six and Seven is a Longish Story and zero is a better place to start.