Years, small eternities spent in milky, rotten chrysalis, to come out malformed and warped beyond recognition. All that remains of you are the accidents of your existence - the plug and play, the moldy bed, the putrefied stain that sinks further and further into the mattress. This room is one of the few places on earth where you can palpably feel nausea in the air, where you can breathe it in, layered and thick like centuries old mud. It is a slow, mounting nausea, a gripping dread, a staggering inertia, it is made of all the most vile concoctions that might put you into a deep, still sleep. Your existence no longer extends past this bed, this soporific sarcophagus that has swallowed you whole. With numbed limbs you can grasp for air, you can claw at the walls of your tomb, only to dig yourself further into it. Every night, you dream - you see the world glimmering faintly through a glass sky, you yearn for it with your wretched heart, only for it to darken with scornful wrath. You could never hope to see it again, and yet you do, as day by day the skin peels off the ends of your fingers, your spine curls up like death, and your eyes burn through with blinding white noise. The only regret that remains, is to have departed from the cold dark where you once slept soundly, snug in the comfort of nothingness. If only you had not crawled out from that abyss with grubby wings of flesh and glue, you would never have known the sensation of burning so cruelly under the sun.