I think the strangest part is writing a paper about cancer while watching someone die of it.
It wasn't intentional, of course. Bad luck, bad time, bad stars. Bad choices, not that I knew it at the time.
Maybe this was meant to be a poem, but it's not. I'm too tired to find the beauty in this negative space. Another void in the fabric of reality. Another, another, another.
I'm writing a paper, and it's like watching the world through someone else's glasses. Distorted, half-real at best; funhouse mirrors reflecting radio waves until all you have is white noise.
There's nothing to do. It's already been done. Tried, true, and not enough.
I'd just like to stop hearing the death rattle in my dreams.