Diary of a Dead Man Walking…

Sometimes I hear sounds that aren’t there. Well. They must be there if I hear them. It’s other people who can’t. They are not soft whispered voices from beyond the unknown, nor is it anything half as annoying as the fifteen-minute drum solo in In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida that every kid in detention class used to pound out on their desk. I’ve learned to live with the noises. It’s other people who haven’t learned to live with the reaction they sometimes cause.