I searched my lungs for a sensation other than misanthropy. I've come up short far too many times. All that's left is the off-white padding of scar tissue. None of the pills I've collected from years of scavenging are the Right Ones. Brown and hazel and purple and white doses of What-Me-Worry and Eternal Youth. I sip jasmine tea and brush away aphids from a months old newspaper. I can feel pock-marks through the eyes. I'm a microcosm of the emptiness of my shelter. I wash my metaphorical hands for the thousandth time and contemplate unhealed knuckle scabs by the wan light of a dying cell phone.
11:38 a.m. - 2017-04-03
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