Zip, zap, pop. I'm buzzing and can't stop this feeling inside that I'm sure is so pure it can't be bought at a shop. I don't feel it a lot, so I'm not sure when I'll drop my anticipation of what this buzzing might prompt. What has it wrought? I could not really say, except it's better on good days and worse when I'm malaised. Buzzing, busy buzzing, like a bee with flowers to graze; I am biding my time as long as my precious, special buzzing remains.