TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story. (Edgar Allen Poe)
I can hear it. The sounds haunts me even when I can't. It's that delicate sound, like a mouse on tiny-tiny roller skates. It's the sound of a case-fan dying.
In vain I vacuumed the dust from the interior of the tower. Carefully brushing the caked-on film from each vane, from each petal. And yet... there it is. I power on, after tediously reconnecting each cable, and there it is. The same sound. It haunts me.
Knowingly I ignore it. It adds to my madness.
Inevitably the fan will fail. The case might over heat. And then I will have to face the trial from which I shirkingly turn away. I refuse to replace any fan before it's time. It's just dust! But no, it is not. Those are bearings in the throes of failing. Will it be hours or days?
I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the panels! here, here! --It is the beating of this hideous fan!"