I begrudgingly rouse myself from a stupor of fitfulness. Wakefulness doesn't come easily. Neither does sleep, these days.
I apply somnophoric leeches to ease the grey shakes. I shoot raw idolatry into the veins between my toes to keep me moving. My arteries have collapsed from my inelastic obsolescence, you see. Reconstructive tape lines the walls of my mind to reinforce brittle values.
I wake up each morning greeted by the rictus smile of bile in my lungs. Flecks of disdain spot my palms after I cough. I find myself staring emptily at my hands after a long while.
I'm Thirty and Three years old, and officially afflicted with the disease known as Myself.
11:59 p.m. - 2014-07-28
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