???

 

The horrors of self, real or not, worthy or not, are seeping through the ceiling, spilling down the walls and slowly wetting the dry tiles, Oxygen Age. There is no way out, not even a little crack in the corner, not an open door, but I have been notorious for making holes in concrete and running anyway. This time the water is colder than it ever was and this humble space isn't expanding any further than it could, and I will not be leaving. I know I can and will forgive myself for putting my soul and body through hell right after leaving it, I must anyway, but please forgive me for locking you in with me. It was inevitable, this tainting of everything fine, the rug being pulled from under my feet. Who else would do it? Who else goes for the bone before the flesh? What more can we ask for? Me doing something is as radically changing for you as me staying put, you either burn from the inside out or the outside in. This is a death. If -and when- I get out of this any better, and you can still stand on your two feet, come back whole and find me again. I have never ever really lost sight of anything in my life, no need to remind me. For now, you will drown before I do, and I will be swallowing the flood.