The screech, relentless, piecing and dull, lacking any semblance of harmony and melody, madness amongst the sane, is like the dead skeleton of a tree in the middle of a magnificent garden and like the dark shadows of gravestones over flowers brought by loved ones, and this is and is not taking this affliction all too devastating and all too seriously. I hardly noticed this magnificent garden before the great oak died. I was too busy plotting other things. Now that broken limbs have crushed my rose bush I refuse to smell the honey suckle. We always have been taught as writers and readers to draw a conclusion. Tinnitus is intrusion and in severity resembles a nail in the brain that can't be removed unless you die. But what if you took the risk, took the back end of the hammer with neighbors foot on head and pulled out the nail? Any guarantee that this selfish act would relent the screeching finger nails exercising on the chalk board? The rose bush may be wounded but the soil, the soil, the manure tainted soil, is nourished. Bragging rights included, I've not known silence since 1982 and what's that to you? To me, best I can tell, is everything and nothing and everything. Perseverance is all good and even supreme!...re-post coming soon in January 2222.