Pile! No Pile! Pile!

You're not listening, I said "stop," because it's come to be too much. I can't just pile aesthetic-perceptive dilemma, over-analytic demeanors, feelings of loneliness, worthlessness and unproductivity atop the other, allowing each to bleed through their fabricated boundaries and become one more thing to notice me before it's too late and too far away from when I dreamt of explaining to you that you are an everywhere that caused these words I'd somehow type, my fingers, feet and diaphragm all screaming. And as things grew more complicated, conscious expansion cultivated, the books' ideas, songs' polyphony, texture, content danced around me. Unlike all the events staged (the puppeteer'd façade I'd made) this was naturally extraordinary and grabbed me from the ordinary, now perceived reduction theory of where we are.
From afar it made less sense and appeared beauty-less, which I guess is its defense, not that any simple allegory transcends my inability to relate. It's this ability to relate that provides the socially obligatory things that I want to re-learn why we're friends again? I thought you knew.
I can pile one atop the other, it just feels bad. It just feels bad to realize you might hear something in the quietest of nights and that there are two of me and one of them will say "Hannah" way before now.