I wind myself up into the wince and the ache, and hesitantly reach for a new prescription. I told you, I can feel this weather in my muscles and bones. I know well before the lightning comes. If I were to fall asleep, then I may not be aware of this pill burning an ulcerous mantra over and over again into my stomach. Ah, but to be numb for a day! You, who chose the easy road between your Point A and Point B— do you feel the lightness and elasticity as your inner pulleys grease themselves along? You, who stands knee-deep in marsh and shiver your way into a minimal existence— does the pain resurface in the night, masked as a disease whose cure is unobtainable? Tell me I have not suffered alone. How can a disease such as this exist, to which there are only symptoms in multiplication, and yet it has no cause and simply exists between the lock-and-key grid work of the mind? I would like to know that I may give my blood and be viewed so hollow, that only this one seed remains clear, and that it may be pitted from me in hunger as a peach is pitted for consumption, and that I may be fruit and fleshed again one day, able to rise from the ground with a natural sweetness from the body of earth, and synthesize a band of warmth from the sun into this cool, dying slab of ache that my body has kneeled to worship.

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