As I type these words, my fingertips shake without my consent. I hit "backspace" more than any other key. I punch the letters violently, each completed word a defiant victory. Pulses of energy surge through my muscles, down from my knotted shoulders through my forearms and shooting through the blue veins of my hands. Invigorating, in the way that being clawed by a housecat is invigorating. Painful, but so fleeting that surprise is more prevalent than pain.

Stilettos slice into my mind. Over and over. Infinite tiny cuts. That's what I feel.

I'm trapped. Inside a montage. Infinitely complex. A room. The floor, walls, and ceiling are all screens. Different scenes play out on every surface. And every scene is an amalgam of perfectly composed visual narratives. A montage of montages of scenes, with every scene perfectly formed. At will I follow one narrative into the rabbit hole and then am swept away, a tsunami of chaotic, swirling, disjointed images.

I am the auteur, and the captive audience. I am omnipotent and helpless. Sometimes all-knowing and sometimes knowing nothing, but always all-seeing.

Somewhere, the fifth movement of Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique blares, overlapping itself and endlessly repeating.

Help me, please.