Portraits hung on empty halls

I've got a buzzing headache from those Lights I kept chugging down, just because I had something to prove to myself -- mainly that I can drink something as vile as beer. Yes, beer is vile. It is yellow, bubbly, and clings to the tip of your tongue and the back of your throat. I'm writing this as I wait for work to load, because work is technological that way. My mind is whirring with things I have to write down. God, my head, it hurts. There was too much poetry written down tonight, all those epic rengas, especially for someone who's in a Fiction diet. Gahdammit, my head. I hate beer. I am not drunk, just piss-ass mad at the world. Insert momentary Zen moment here --

Say something interesting: Good morning. Today I woke up to the neighbor singing Don McLean. I cannot go on with how his voice sounds like, if it sounds like anything at all, whether the timbre shivers the bones by my heart, because he is in another house, and the walls are thick. But I hear him. He sings and when no hope is left inside and it is easy toi magine him sitting up in his bed, a glass of water suspended in the air, forgetting its own path to his lips. Would I know if, right now, he thinks of Van Gogh, the one who took your life as lovers often do? Does he wonder who this Vincent is, does he know the man cut his ear off to stop the voices in his head? No, I don;t think I would know, because the walls are thick. But then, I could always leave this house and go knock on his door. But then, what would I say? Something interesting like, Good morning. I hear you through the walls. And by the way, I'm just your neighbor, trying to get some song out of her head.

-- okay, that was done. And this bleeping headache won't go away and I've got somewhere to go early tomorrow, early later, god, head, shut up shut up shut up.