A monkey on my back, a vile specimen caught in my throat, a heavy heart offering peace only in storms and snow: my existence is weighty. It doesn’t strike me as odd until it batters a conversation into a sad, begging pulp, or until it changes my sternum into a lead brick. This is how I am. I imagine this is how many are. No, that’s a lie, I don’t imagine, I assume.
Can’t sleep so I decided to write. Not surprisingly, that’s not working well.