I have been so sick.

On top of my back issues.

Nothing beats coughing fits with a bad back.

I've been thinking of Wretched Gifts even if I haven't been able to write.

I suppose this may be a cosmic kind of justice. One that reminds us of the punishments we deserve once things have been going well enough to make us forget.

A vicious cycle wherein we live in the moment too much and forget to watch over our shoulders lest the past find us unawares.

I've been thinking lately, wondering what it is I'm even doing on here, posting this story. I break most of the rules of good writing. I use words most people won't know. It's a nightmare for non-native speakers. I break rules of grammar and syntax like they never mattered. Who can even understand it?

I don't know. It all seems so pointless lately. Not just this, but everything else, too. Just. . . All of it seems so empty and pointless.

I'd say that I wish I was a tree, but how many old ones are left? I feel factory farmed. Like a cheap imitation of every skilled person I've ever met.