after_midnight raze between bursts of sickening sound shaped by acoustic devices designed to do the opposite of what their names promise and the indistinct baritone undulations of a voice with nothing of substance to say, a whistle that's really a horn pisses in my ear for the seventh month straight, turning blood to bile. there's no escaping it. the only relief comes from the temporary death sleep allows. and even that's a piteous balm at best. 230515 what's it to you? who go blather from