[ miles's hands slide up over his forehead to comb through his hair, nails scraping his scalp, his hands seizing fistfuls of short hair. he's got half a mind to pull it out. he looks frantic -- wide eyes bloodshot, face paper-white and ill, teeth practically chattering. ]

Why does everyone keep asking me that? [ it comes out as an outburst, and miles is shaking again, curling in on himself, as though he might find some singularity within himself to disappear into. his voice wavers into hysterical laughter as he descends into babbling. ] Yeah, let's cart Miles right on over to sickbay and stick him full of sedatives that are just going to make him hallucinate more. Ironic as hell. That's irony, isn't it? Or is it the short jokes -- I always get that mixed up. Literature never was strong point, but I could recite all of Richard III for you, right here, right now. Voices and everything.

[ he's still shaking, still in hysterics, but he's starting to run himself down. he can only keep this up for so long. ]