March 27th, 2017
The rhythms of stress were building into a large crescendo.
The timber of strangled time colored the notes as I attempted to progress.
The tenor of my voice became shaky…a fettered vibrato flowed through me.
All I could do was be crushed under the weight of my imagination while attempting to become a competent composer. I couldn’t fail.
My weapon involved four strings and it was the closest frequency to the human voice itself. It was my tool to make sense of this world and to get a degree in it.
I had to progress. I must progress.
“Hey, Yasmina. Are you okay?”
C. M. B. Bell's Writing Universe 