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The world started to squeeze on me tighter, I changed against my will, suffocating in place and the things that once brought me joy are nigh unto ripples in the cracked mud at the bottom of a dried creek bed. Well there was motion here once. (...) He was just the final pillar to crumble I suppose, and there is a little dark bruise where a peice of rubble shot out at my leg. When it brushes against the furniture it burns like hell. If I press it at the edges just right though, it aches and tingles. I laugh. Maybe I can fix this. Waves in a dry creek bed. What the fuck happened here? [...]
