Only to float on ether. When before and after begin to merge. Blurring of the invisible lines between past, present and future. Virginia Woolf was not insane. Neither was Nietzsche.
Clarity is ether.
There is no room of one's own. The voices are everywhere. I look out the doorway and watch as the woman with streaming white hair walks back and forth, whispering sweet-nothings to her precious plants. She is too much within her own room. She does not hear the traffic, but she hears the voices from her past.