I don’t feel like myself, not my whole self. Today I am the worst part of myself, like all the other parts have dissolved and what’s left at this keyboard is a dark, lopsided figure. I don’t care about much. The day has passed by, and I’m still wearing what I went to bed in last night.

Life feels continuous and mortality appears innocuous when the hourglass is full, but eventually the little grains of sand are distinguishable. Grain one. Grain two. Breath one. Breath two. Beat one. Beat two. There’s a finite number each. And I can almost make mine out. I’ve never felt as temporary as I do today.


Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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