(Edit: yep, the bastards took out the pseudoephedrine. No wonder it seems like I have to take more, and no wonder I can't sleep.)
The voices in my head are back, only now they're playing the kind of music like you'd hear on an old transistor radio from the early 1960's set on the top shelf of a general store above the machine that sold coke in glass bottles for 15 cents.
There's a story buried in there.
Bed now. Try to sleep again.