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    A dinner. Voices colliding, sentences repeating, all demanding to be heard. All talking. All shouting. None listening. None. And this smell of smoke… The TV is on. The same ads. The same voices. The same songs. Always the same songs. They repeat. They hammer my ears. They echo. And they’re loud, so loud they crush any attempt to think. And this smell of smoke… They accuse me. Say it’s my fault. Say the smoke is mine. Say I’m distracted. Say I look tired. They say. They always say. They criticize. Always criticize. Voices attacking me, voices suffocating me, voices tearing at me. They repeat. They repeat. Always the same voices. This smoke. This smell. This smell of frying, of smoke, of criticism. This smoke. This smoke. Again, the ad. Again, the bells. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


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    But I just want this theater to end, for the curtain to fall, to transform into a blanket and wrap around me. To let me feel this pain tightening in my chest. But this smell, smoke, and frying… Again, the ad. Again, the bells.