Most of the time I don't even notice it; my mind is either racing or asleep.
But sometimes, the noise crashes through everything.
Low roar, I have had since childhood.
Jingling and ringing, probably a punishment for all those gigs at which I stood with my head adjacent to the speaker... and all those rehearsals in the wet basement of the house in Kingsgate Road, West Hampstead, where the Chefs rehearsed all day, every day, apart from weekends.
Last night, two new voices joined the cacophony: a whistle, which turns up from time to time and discreetly pipes away before vanishing off to soundland; and most strangely (for I have never heard this one before) a crunching noise a bit like somebody crumpling up a crisp paper bag.
I lay in the quiet darkness listening to this strange music played by my perceptions, entertained by the oddness of the tinnitis symphony.
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