My body is sick.
My heart hurts.
It's already mid of September.
Tick tock tick tock.
My head feels like it's going to explode.
There's a wheeze accompanying every exhalation.
I just want to crawl into bed and die.
I have a selection of fantasies, from which I choose one every night as a gateway into sleep. Those fantasies used to be technicolor films - travel, wealth, adventure.
Nowadays I dream of sepia tinged homicide, infanticide, suicide, and sometimes, Venice.