how apt
all sense of hope vanished, along with idea of a futurity; my brain, in thrall to its outlaw hormones, had become less an organ of thought than an instrument registering, minute by minute, varying degrees of its own suffering.the mornings themselves are becoming bad now ... but afternoons are still the worst, when I'd feel the horror, like some poisonous fogbank, roll in upon my mind, forcing me into bed. there i would lie for as long as six hours, stuporous and virtually paralyzed, gazing at the ceiling in a less cluttered room.
waiting for that moment of evening when, mysteriously, the crucifixation would ease up just enough to allow me to force down some food and then, like an automaton, back to the stuporous paralyzed state.
posted by P. @ 4/14/2006 01:18:00 AM
6 comments
