there is just no getting used to coughing. the body is disgusted. with something strange. the lungs, like the leviathan, have got to do its work - expel jonah, expectorate phlegm.
the world is a beautiful place to be born into, the poet lawrence ferlinghetti said, if you don't mind happiness. my system, however, is not wired for happiness, i suppose. every time, happiness turns up in my vestibule, i always seem to chase it away like a cantankerous woman brandishing a brittle birch broom.
i feel like the prodigal son now - sick and scabbed with unmendable sorrows.
i don't expect forgiveness when i grovel back to the dust at L's feet after squandering this good fortune far away in the sweetly sinister land of this strange man. no feast in my deplorable honor of what was lost and irretrievable.
