the sickly taste hasn't left me yet. Like a wild dog in the forest I will purge and examine what remains of the day in my gall and then leave the steaming mess to fertilize a new day. My stomach is turning in its own stew and reeks of sewage and backed up stress placed upon my shoulders. Shudder and tremors take my muscles and tighten them to a coil of duress and I want to hurl, I need to, but I won't. To do so would be to admit I am dying and to admit in jest is one thing but under the stress of truth is another.
I have wanted death to play cards at my table and I suppose it would have been nice if he would be a pleasant visit in the day's sleep like all creatures pray for. But this foul sulphur erupting from my body's caverns leaves me to believe that there are other more painful bouts I will have at the black jack table with the cloaked one. I know my organs are already dead and need puppetry to force my will upon them and it sickens me even more, mentally, to know I have to coerce my own temple to host my soul. Damned I am and I didn't even do a deed in this lifetime to warrant it but that's ok by me. I know full well I have added much to atone for through the journeys of my past and will do so proud with my head held high. My vanity escapes me as I ponder who can smell the stench rising up my esophagus like the putrid steam of feces rising in the cold night from the city's sewer grills. I feel for the weak of heart and stomach for they cannot help but gag on my every word and fall ill as I ail and am dying. My bloated body does me great injustice as it proves their lies about my kind to be somewhat true. I am the dead walking. I am dying and still bear the strength of any ten men of their kind. I was a bad beast this past few days and did not put on the act of puppetry I needed to to keep my illusion of "living" alive. So I will suffer in silence, except on paper and screen, these next few days as I carefully take count and restitution and make the necessary changes needed to appear, normal.
Normal is a funny word though. I shall never appear normal. In the bloated state I am in I have never appeared normal and only fooled the too stupid to read and irritated at best those who know how bad off I am. I still push forward, not in denial so much as a need, for no one else will carry my load will they? I push and trivialize the mundane and strive for a schedule to stick to though one hasn't been had since my last trimester some fifteen plus years ago. If I am to dine with her this evening I will need a miracle to save my poor "copperpot" from the rotting taking place. I know come three days hence the evidence of my failure to take care of myself will render itself into the sunny expelling of my flesh into the wastewater and far off to the cleansing of such matter. I don't know how many times I have digested my own stomach lining, but I assure you it wasn't a treat or planned and it has happened more than a 100 days a year for the last 38 years. There is naught a rumen in tact that will hold so much as a glass of sweet red wine and a cigarette without sounding its discord for the holes it bears. Ack, I can't handle it and suppose myself into the fetus positioning of my beastly self in the hopes that no one recognizes my little "hill" and expects companionship. I will weather my pain in silent tears as sleep takes its hold and allows me to roam free to sup and dance and fornicate on into the day and sun in my dreams. Such are the dreams of the Wamphyrii that I have made a good stance in remembering each and every one as if it were a poignant date...~mobe's love to her all and her all to her loves.
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