Sickness runs rampant through the city. Everywhere coughs, sniffles, outrageous displays as the machine tries to clear the pipes. And so I'm on the run again, bent on zinc, echinacea, garlic, orange juice, swallowing anything anyone reccomends, trying to give the flesh an edge angainst incursion, against the usurpation of the source code, of having my cells turn into copy machines. I've dodged too many bullets this season, I'm due. Wondering: when will it be the one, the one you can't shake, that lingers year after year, destroying energy, destroying will, destroying the fighting spirit, leaving you open to all manner of physical and mental indignity. I tell myself that you won't get it as long as you refuse to accept it, but that logic has failed me before. It's probably just a virus, another permutation, nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, it leaves me running, fearful, suddenly reimmersed in my mortality. All that the flesh is heir to, prone to, everything that comes silent and invisible, odorless and with a touch a million million times lighter than a feather, known only by the effect.
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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