The Doctor points out the bubble-like alien parasiting my
brain. Looked like an embryo was growing there. A second me. Swiping a
second-hand consciousness. Paying me neither rent nor mind. Yet taxing me a
tithe of my cells. The bare faced cheek of it. Tithe not shaved in a month now.
To my delugeded pain receptors, the razor felt like it was scooping out the
inside of my skull. He indicated that the tumours were now squatting against
the language centres of my brain. Journeying to the centre of me. I say
squatting, squat-trusting may be more opposite, I mean apple sit. I doughnut
what I mean. Less than hole.
These days find I can't finish my sentences. Used to finish
those of others in my eagle anticipation. I was agnawing like that. Ignoring? Shoe on the other boot now. The ironing
being others have to guest my words, to figure out what I'm trying to slay.
This thing willow the death of me. Though there willow no me to speak of, since I
would have longing surrended any bill utility to espresso myself. The memories
will be longing lost, since I will lactate the romps reculling them. I will an
empty, wordless shell. Like cancel the crab, chew more up of me (that one I did
on purpossum, I'm not quiet shotput yet, not when I shotput what's left of my
mind to it).
They slay I'm slearning my words. Languish is defecting me. Splaying
possum. Langwish I...
