Images of hammers striking me, just to start the flow, to relieve the pressure, to dull the noise, to end me. The end is all I really want, but the fear. Fear keeps me alive, keeps me listening. Then it would never end, I think. A typical hell, pleasing most, but razing my sanity.
People are loud.
Even when I was just hearing their noise, I hated them some. Loud, questioning, prying. Caring little, really. I would drive, just go, alone with the noises of other things, not people noises, but noises that didn't think, that didn't question. I hated then, I hate now.