I cannot stand to hear the phrase, “I’m dying”.
Even worse to me, is when someone else decides to be clever and add, “Well, we’re all dying, slowly.”
Only for the reason that it doesn’t seem to be understood. It is said with a nonchalance that belies the complexity behind its true meaning.
I sang and screamed and shrieked and howled.
Over and over, and it was not enough.
I haven’t gotten enough yet. I need more. I’m on autopilot now, doors open and close on their own, letting things in briefly enough to feel, and long enough to leave a mark. I just need more.
I believe the next phase will be purely physical.
He just kept laughing, as deep red rivulets of his blood poured from various gashes and abrasions on his face. Laughing like a child. Hit me again Lou, hit me again, you feel good, don’t you? It feels good, doesn’t it?