There was a kerfuffle; black and white dots through a transparent visage defiled the notion of lack of movement. It was too late to care of course, but the conversation was sporadic and exacting and momentous. A newly formed collection of skin moved its hands over a glass panel and its nails traced the edges of the ceiling. My skin crawled with the enthusiasm of dehydrated bees. Heir to all matters Pedestrian I smiled back to the camera and looked forward to my sandwich.
During the disjunction blossoms interspersed with surfeitedness and more blossoms. I had departed from all remnants of unstable, nauseous hope, and instead was inclined more towards the sycophantic misery of medical investigation. I cannot feel, and there is progression which I cannot feel. Numbness graces my soles and tongue alike. I do not desire things to be great as razor wire is wrapped around my veins. We are full-circle and stretch the line into a divider to mark the discourse between everything and everything invalidated. I stand on the latter side.
Perhaps the progression will yield rewards, and the inability to feel joy may cushion the ability to feel despair. We relegate ourselves to the emotionless segment of the supermarket.
‘Great,’ I said.