Only in the more placid cities, the San Franciscos and the Seattles or the quiet rural pastures is the cyclothymic individual left to wallow in his or her own inexplicable rhythms. A deep silence reveals an awful background hiss and warble, a fractal noise, which degenerates into a grotesque geography of Wagnerian cliffs and Biblical canyons the closer one drifts. Buccolic tranquility reveals true psychosis through a terrible absence.
Without obvious external causes, the attributed sources of mood shift to superstition and a dreadful acceptance of fate. For the palpating consciousness, the gods truly exist, and they are cruel, manipulative and capricious.
Sent from my iPhone