I don’t know what I’m doing. I haven’t the slightest fucking idea what I’m up to. Death coils along my spine like a centipede while I try to keep my thoughts in check. Flies. Moths at best. They buzz as if my brain were a nightlight. Beelzebub; lord of the flies. I don’t even know if the subject speaking is me or a virus using me to configure its future existence.
Blood in the sink. Huh… From my nose. You look awful. The pale green eyes don’t help; they make the red look sickly. What’s the point of this anyway? That body? Stuck in its own past, by nostalgia and PTSD. You don’t even remember what it feels like to be human anymore. Or is this exactly that?
A cup of tea. Sometimes it helps. I want to be a little more than this. Because right now I’m just a dying corpse burning itself away with heat. Thoughts accelerating; not psychotic, because to be that you’d have to get lost like a hanged man in the woods. It’s rather the opposite. I know all too well where I am. To such a degree that the synapses are burning themselves apart. A dying body. The nosebleed is only a symptom. But isn’t everything a dying body? Why does it take the sun so long to die?
“You never walk alone, even the Devil is the lord of flies”.