misfit desperately needs to breathe. she stalled midway through her track of bustling to and fro straigtening out frivolous details, and sudden slow notion swept pass the room. everyone seems to move slowly. slower now. along side her mind running radiohead, Fake Plastic trees, over and over again. She really needs a breather.

so she sneaks to the comfort of her own space. locked the door and light up a stick - her faithful companion, as it always has been.

can't you hear?.. i'm not myself

with the stoopid song still playing in her head.

And it Wears Her Out, it wears her out,
it wears her out, it wears her out

She's fucked.