Strung, quartered and reborn
This is how the minutes tick. Before I'm fully awake, I'm already crawling to my laptop, to fall onto the spacebar so that the haunting strains of Radiohead string quartet music stream like ecstatic ribbons out of my speakers, and the cello bass clumsily marches out of my subwoofer. I don't make it back to bed; I'm slumped paralytically on the table with the back of my hands pressed firmly against my eyes so I'll see the sparkled kaleidoscopes inside my eyelids convulse in time to the music.
If I could gently explode from rapture, I'd like to, if it meant that I die listening to these sounds.
Such distraction. In lectures, the drone of academia thickens and congeals into rolling blooms of Paranoid Android. Elongated motes of crying violin strains billow from the professor's mouth in long golden strings, filling the lecture hall with chords and beautiful chaos.
After the interminable classes, I kick a bottle cap all the way home, enveloped in Exit Music (for a film), and stand in the middle of the lawn watching the clouds streak overhead to the pained strains of Subterranean Homesick Alien.
This is how the minutes don't tick: I just lost 44 minutes staring at Windows Media Player screen ambience, while listening to Radiohead on string quartet, again.
OMFG IT'S SO INTENSE!!!1!!!1!1!!!!11! I want to tear the music out of the speakers in ragged silken sheets, and cover myself in them, forever.