i cannot hold myself upright.
tremors under my skin, in my jaw, old hands. i am paler than i have ever been. white ghost. disappearing into bones
i don't necessarily want.
it's just inertia. it's just this white weak sun. i'm wilting as the croci pop up vivid purple in the rain.
but the world is still dead.
it's dead in my head. it's soft and still and quiet in here.
for once.
is that why the inertia keeps the food from my lips, overwhelms the sense of smell, cuts off access to--
well, everything?
i want to be home. yellow sun-soaked eyes.
skin the color of life. of movement and thoughts and freedom.
i am, essentially, caught in the nexus of my distress. i suppose i have given up the thrashing, flopped over as if dead. maybe i won't be dead that way.
but
it's true that i don't breathe here.
am i dead and not know it? is it that my body is slowly coming to terms with already being dead? is Death, the Grand End of Things, far different from what we thought?
a slow cool down into nothingness, a hand wrapped around your heart, squeezing it slowly away?
necrosis of the hands, next? blackness, scooching upward
until i cannot feel where my body ends
and the universe begins?
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