today, i went to the post office to send a package to a friend. it's full of decomposing matter, taken from the barren kitchen and dining room i once called "home". "home" is often called to be "where your lungs are", but i've always thought it was a little strange to insinuate that. that your every breath occurred because of where you lived, and you couldn't live without it. i had lived without my "home" for quite some time. when you see the package, it'd be easy to feel melancholy or a deep sense of disturbance at the viscera and smell of deathly dread inside. i frankly don't know what value she saw in it, but it made her so happy. it would make her so happy. maybe it was the life that persisted in that graveyard, its gorging on the proteins and keratin that once made up another giving it vitality to live. it was still living. maybe that was why it made her happy - maybe she was one of those mushrooms. i cried all the way "home". the sun is long and iridescent. the year is 2016, and i am so, so tired. its waves of distortion grow stronger and stronger by the days that pass in this hell we live in. everyone says that by the end of the month, it'll all be over. its waxing presence on my life leaves me lethargic and nervous. when will it all end? the emaciated worms in the box hum and growl with a lack of energy characteristic of a dog eating a meal that warms and fills them wholly. i hope it will reach my friend before the end of the world
i hope we can go home