A needle of ephemera the size of knitting hook punches through my breastbone. It dumps the contents of a horse syringe- unceremoniously- straight into my ribs. My lungs seize up, gripping vials of seething. I struggle to breathe. I try scrub the inside of my chest cavity with a salve of biting fall eveningtime. Combating my inner-alchemy is hard. Finally, my reckless ministrations bring a respite from violence.
The little lung-bottles of vex spill everywhere. Bled out with the gentility of leeches and clumsy precautions. The splattered affliction stains everything it touches a shade of ashen charcoal. I can't sop it up fast enough with my handfuls of pages of yellowed, weathered scripture.
9:51 p.m. - 2014-11-18
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