There was some tone—a steady duet that played through her head. She felt like, and the neighbors would say this was the wine coolers, like her head were expanding. It’s as if companies or men were inside it roping together new networks of cables, stretching her synapses, stretching her, stretching the tonal duet through her like her head were it’s own universe, and she heard music like she was in an elevator, and talking, but it was not one conversation but many like what you hear when trying to sleep in an airplane, and felt a kind of Morse code on her, fingers and fingers, some heavy with fatigue, others anxious, pressing her and waiting with self-aware breathing, and few pre-planned lines of copy, all this electrical highway in poor Miss Pbaeln Waevff’s throbbing head. It was a constant headache. She couldn’t get out of bed anymore. No, not since that high-pitched ring began about ten years ago. The first click was one hundred, the expanding headache around fifty, but now there was something new, a ringing like ears after a rock concert with blaring guitars and keyboards, bass drum that changes the speed your heart beats, but this sound was moving, searching for something. Oh, that’s what’s wrong: Miss Pbaeln Waevff’s heart. There was no beat!
A heart beat consists of a beat and a non-beat but it’s like she was but on indefinite pause, but an active indefinite pause. Her whole existence was beat. She was suspended sound and activity—the duet, the talking, the ringing. She couldn’t take it anymore. She fished around behind her to unplug the prong from the wall, the first of such a connection to ever exist, the central something from which all current transmission emanates, passes, lives. Unplugged, it would all suddenly cease—never remembering that it ever had been. But the headache was too much and we all agreed that no old woman should have to endure the pain for all of dumb eternity. We supported her right to pull the plug and go from a state best characterized as on to something like off.
She felt the prong where it entered a kind of quarry in the wall, a shaft as it were, and felt all the tiny voices swirl, all the need and longing, the missing and loving, fighting and hating, repenting and forgiveness, and decided tonight she would just take it easy on the wine coolers or all of it would vanish because someone else would have to replace her but there was no one else, and that was the problem, she had always been everybody else, she had always been them everywhere always a vibrating wave, had never been her, a her, a thing in itself that was anything more than a receptor and transmitter, resonance that eternal lighting of existence, that links the three arch angels, the Faust, the Zeus, the mushrooms in their phyla—spores soaring in the air, like comets crashing on planets, sending their new information via a resonance-sphere, one of the big ideas of the time—Miss Pbealn Weavff noticed that, yes, her ego had grown, itself like a spore, or better yet like a tumor and that was precisely the problem, the notion that she could even have a headache was ridiculous, for a woman could have a headache, but not a machine, nor a network, nor Blind Miss Pbaeln Waevff.