Therapy
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Everything feels black. Shouldering depression now. She said I was blue.
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Chad Hofmann
I like to make up stories. Some people like them, some people don’t. Please enjoy.
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Bach
The front of the disc says Bach. I have no idea what the word means, but the sound that’s stored in the shiny plastic is otherworldly. At first I thought maybe it was just the thrill that was making the music so sweet in my ears. But the more I listened the more I understood, the more I knew. And with each passing note I cared less and less whether they found me and, secretly, I think I want them to. What better way to die than by listening to this thing called Bach? After the many hours I’ve been sitting here, listening to this disc over and over, it’s plain to see why the machines banned the music when they took over. Why it’s penalized by only one punishment, which, of course, is death.
By Chad Hofmannabout a year ago in Fiction
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