I chase time with a headset, because the music tells me something when words can’t. Every tick feels like a potential triumph or a wasted breath, and that keeps me on edge. I’m haunted by the thought that one wrong beat could be the last note of a life well‑played. In that moment, the only certainty is that time will keep moving, indifferent to my hopes.

I keep moving, but it feels like I’m running on a treadmill that’s also a battlefield. Every step is a gamble, and the worst part is that the only way out is to keep going, even when the wrong note could shatter everything. So I push, but I also listen for the quiet signals that say, “You’ve had enough.”

I keep firing, but each pulse reminds me that victory is just a borrowed word. The clock never stops, so my hope is always half‑baked, like a song left unfinished. The treadmill feels endless, yet the possibility of a final triumph keeps me strapped in, even if the final note might never find its place.