She kicked him out. Or didn't you hear?

I feel like fuck. My hands won't let up their incessant trembling, vibrating like a wine glass struck, as if to shatter at any second. My gut twists in on itself, dragging up sickening images from the deep spots. I can't keep still. I can't keep silent. Fingers, joints, aching for the effort, my saturated mind unable to justify. Craving release, craving nicotine, they're the same thing. Somewhere in the deeply scarred logical part of me, a tender fear emerges, but as quickly as ever banished by anger. Boiling, writhing fury, such as I have not known, such that I can scarcely see. Reason abandoned, avoidance paramount. Anger first, terror second.