the human being is ill.

sour. a human being that is ill. he stretches his spine back into the chair, turns on a lamp. he slides his fingers across the pages, barely reading, already aware of all the words anyway, taunting the sharp edge of the paper with exposed skin. this foolish behavior continues into the morning: teasing, playing, pointless play-acting, seeking the materialization of a wound. waiting for an apparition, wondering if it even matters. On the radio, static, voices that reverse themselves. the sunrise breaking across the barrier of his own windowsill, conversation devoid of phonetics. his desk drawers, dried pens. shuts off the lamp, watches his own hand reach, turn the switch. he brings his hand back. his very own hand. an illness that wants to summon back all the body's disparate spirits. alone, howls softly in his chair, seeking to exorcise the dread disappointment solidifying in his lung.
Finally, he breathes out fire with a gruesome scowl. The birds' morning chirping falls under the smoke alarms. He is his very own scourge. He excels at this exercise. his neighbours know this, see his lights on all night. they hear the alarms, never complain.