Atop a roof and reality’s shifted slightly to the left. Every tree, every home-gutter-bird-swing set twists, shedding into some new and vile thing. The palette is all wrong; sacred blues, greens, browns—fade. Cyan skies melt orange like viscous candle wax. Black watercolor clouds are dowsed in ink, spreading like Rorschach.
I suppose medicine is all I need. Lying on the carpet embracing nothing—holding intangible things like hope or faith, I listen to the dirge that plays at glacial, painful pace, trying to love the soulless void I’ve become—the functioning drone. Each dose builds more gears like antibodies, replacing flesh slowly, methodically, cruelly. My diagonally bandaged arms sigh.
Travel now consists of crawling from scorched plains of couch to a mountainous bed with jagged, rocky pillows where loose springs lie in wait. An alarm clock laughs—casting mad shadows over my face as I stare into a digital Hell. 11:00. 11:01. 12:53.
Rise, mournful sun.
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