Jet engines could never compete with the voices that bellow my flaws, echoing off the walls of my head. Dropping your mother's china will never compare to the feeling that is my body's way of telling you it's aching for understanding. Sometimes when you squint at the sun, you realize it poses no threat to the burn of the look you get when you tell someone you're drowning in yourself. If you don't read my words in quick, quiet succession, are you reading them at all?