Immunization.

Tom Waits' Closing Time has been playing in my car for over a month non-stop. I took him out last weekend to listen to Barry White, which I enjoyed, but after a few songs, I began to feel a sort of panic grip at me.

I put in Closing Time to immunize myself against the effects of "Martha." Because she was in my dreams, or, at least, her song was in my dreams. And I felt a visceral tugging at my chest just upon hearing the first few notes. One note, really. I could hear one note and feel like some nefarious priest from the Temple of Doom was reaching bare-handed into my chest and pulling out my still-beating heart. Weird how music can do that.

And it bothered me. I don't care for the feeling of someone groping beneath my ribcage. So I thought that if I listened to the song over and over again, I would eventually become unfeeling.

But that doesn't seem to be the case. Now I feel dependent upon it. Now I feel a sense of betrayal if I dare to remove Mr. Waits from my CD player. As if he is saying, "Could there really be anyone else? For shame."

Weird how music can do that.