Every fiber in my being has turned tin. Something in the air is ashed and worn. It's quickly infecting. Growing, and thriving off of other diseases. I don't know how much more of it I can take, in all honesty. Tomorrow is a day, and a new one. While it ought to be one already thrown into the abyss of the past, the future awaits it with naive arms. The thrust of the foolish fall won't break it, though. Once it's gone, it won't be permanent. It hasn't ever turned that way before, and there isn't a reason that it would now. It seems that a sort of acetaminophen could help transfer pain elsewhere, but it's utility only reaches so far. To think that it hasn't been more than a few weeks is incredulous. I only wish that things could be different, but by chance, those are things that would't ever change in the first place. Seeing that I am ill to be satisfied, I leave this monster in hopes that it too will flourish as it needs after I have torn it like the vindictive creature I've become.
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