The wagon wheels sink into the mud, their tracks deeper and deeper until you fall in and they run you over once and for all. It’s only the disease talking, you repeat to yourself like a hex, like maybe if you say it one more time you’ll believe it.
You do not.
A snow storm arrives, blankets the northeast, hides Manhattan behind its front. One day in the future we’ll try to tell our kids we saw this kind of snow all the time, and they’ll roll their eyes. You wonder if maybe humanity should dip out early, leave the host to clean up the mess we’ve made.
It’s only the disease talking.
There was something else you wanted to do with your life, something other than wither away on a deep couch in a dark room, counting tree rings on the ceiling, counting your blessings and coming up short on change, there was something you meant to do with your precious minutes other than squandering them into an abyss that won’t give you the time of day in return. The monster doesn’t owe you anything.
A disease isn’t here to hear
what you have to say
in return.
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