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by mrs. johnson 05/05/2003, 1:57am PDT |
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Your criticisms bounce off my like bullet off of Superman. Keep 'em coming.
Crossing stardust used to take a few minutes. Those days are gone. To navigate through the impartial static fields now requires countless hours. They tell me it’s because of the contractions, but I don’t believe a fucking word. I know what’s happening, but my mouth will remain shut. If I say too much, I will end up enriching the stardust…
CLICK. I wake up. All of my dreams lately have been like that. Strange and completely alien to me. The voice in my head is not even mine. And every time I wake up, I hear a clicking noise. Forget it; I say aloud to comfort myself. Through the windows the sound of passing cars slowly enters my consciousness. It’s getting more and more difficult to rise out of bed every day. The prospect of daily tasks looms large and all I want to do is remain here in the unnatural semi-darkness created by the blinds. The gray light sifting through the uncovered edges gives my furniture a ghostly appearance. I suddenly realize that my life has no looming adventures or events. In fact, it has been consistent for the past five years, and I really have no reason to get up. My enjoyment is stunted because I no longer sense the mysterious as I did when I was a child. There’s nothing out there for me. Nothing. I think I’ll stay in bed. That’s it. I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t know how I’m actually going to live here. I don’t know how I’m going to pay off the mortgage to this house, or how I’m going to even relieve myself if I never leave the bed. Or how I will even commit suicide if the pain of hunger becomes too much. Oh god. If I don’t go to work, I might get fired. I… I can’t leave this bed. I can’t. I have to. The indecision is burning my mind. I feel like a great nausea…
“What did he die of?†Officer Goram asks the mortician on duty.
“Not sure. Nothing seems to be wrong with his body, so I guess it’s of natural causes, but he’s so young. A shame.†He covers the body with a sheet.
“Yeah. Poor kid.â€
the mrs. |
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