Suspending the inevitable.
That is what my conscience is saying.
I cannot delay what is becoming of me any longer.
A metamorphosis, pending for too long.
A death, waiting to happen.
Chapter I. Chasm
There are no words to describe this feeling, a sensation of being chocked of
air. Burning, a fire lit beneath my breath, all that exits my mouth is
smoke. No utterance leaves me as this monumental beast sits on my lungs,
not even "it hurts".
Don't you turn your eyes from the hell-hound lying before you, squirming
under the weight of her own disposition. A shrub living without water, a brain without air, a human without will. She is, by all definitions, dead.