When you're awake, it's a single string of text, repeating.
A single musical sting that you can hear against the polluted silence - that isn't ever silent.
They're always wriggling. Always eating.


An imaginary sensation,
You can feel but you cant touch.
An imaginary illusion.
You can see but you cant touch.


Things tend to be like that,
Like ideas,
Always elusive.


Pretty things don’t lie still; they haunt, they stare.
In the static,
you can hear them whispering.


earworms.