Pandora's box.

I caught the plague. So far it is treating me well.... perhaps even better than I treat myself. But I am often reminded of the boy on the stairs and how if I tried to say anything at all I'd end up wearing my trachea's yellow-green lining on my sleeve.

I had sticky ink under my fingernails so I cut them off with scissors. I wished I still had the bubble gum pink, bear shaped plastic brush that was always sitting by the kitchen sink. Now I'm going back to the printmaking studio to soothe my pounding head with the sound of steel on zinc.

Robot sex.