Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Pneumonia

I miss the night. My shades have remained closed for three days. Nothing gets in, nothing goes out. I don't remember the feel of the sky; I seem to melt in with the dank feel of this emptyroom. I miss the way the stars kissed me goodnight. I've been hiding in this illness for so many days. My eyes are closing, saying goodbye to the fevers and foul feelings and never do they want to open again. My head is chemically imbalanced, I can feel it when I stand up too fast or when my eyes dart back and forth from idea to reality. The meds are large and bitter and alter my tastebuds so everything tastes contaminated and rank. I miss the lack of distortion in my dreams. And I miss the shadows being shadows only, and not viscious ghouls.

2.1.09.


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Pneumonia

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