Volume on low

On these Premium-and-Light-on-the-streets nights, the heart opens and uses the only voice it knows...but no one wants to listen. Ultimately, the price of being different is meriting less of what is normally freely given to everyone else. It's not the whiny quality, or the awkward, halting, stuttering delivery...it's that amorphous, difficult mass the syllables had fumbled over.

Maybe my means only comes up to where my pen begins.