keeping this lazy, clanking bag of bones & metal moving becomes a chore, the sicker i get. or am i healing? i can never tell. i imagine all the shadows built up inside my body's sinuses leaking out about my head as a black halo. when i mop at a perspiration soaked brow, does it come away dappled with crimson? i imagine i must be sweating blood, or bullets at least. when i open my mouth does anything else but death's rattle come out? i'm the most miserable little pteradactyl, all curled up upon this cliff-face, choking on perfumed disease. my wings are the mottled colour of a bruise! i need to be fed egg shells, fingers, cough drops, snake oils. the universal panacea would not avail the greatest alchemist, so ill am i. although i did drag my wretched self out of bed & to the bookstore today. i'm the champion of the phyrric wars!