Sunday, July 7, 2013

My skin is moist, damp and clinging to the grooves of my fingerprints as I poke myself in the arm. My body feels like it is melting; a body of clay becoming more impressionable and malleable as time goes by and the temperature in this room increases. Trails of salt and water begin to draw lines down my neck as though I'm in a eucalyptus infused steam hut without any foreseeable or immediately evident means of escape. 

There is no escape.

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