Fact was, he was wearing himself out. His first strategy, after finding that he was beginning to hate being alone in his own mind, was to drive himself harder to stay busy. His thoughts began to pile up in front of him, though, developing a bow wave that couldn't move fast enough to keep out of his way and they became all jumbled as they crested and broke. He'd start an email to a supervisor with a good introductory paragraph, laying out some problem or other and the important points of its history. After dropping in a set of bullet points hitting on the major issues and another suggesting possible solutions, he'd look back for the threads he needed to tie up the matter so he could build a good, directive closing paragraph and see that he'd written total gibberish. More and more time wasted. Less and less desk visible under the growing piles of back-logged tasks.
He traced the first faint murmurings back to that dozy day in the park with Marcy and the nagging sense his dream had left with him. Marcy had soothed him with loving words and warm lips, but what was it she had said? Something about not trying to remember the thoughts themselves, just allowing himself to remember how they felt, just let them come out. It had started soon after that. Strolling the few blocks home that afternoon, they'd been quiet, each letting the other bathe in the soft autumn day. His dream had retreated further still, but left a little niggling buzz in its place.
It was growing louder day by day.