Fever

I was sick. The type of sick that comes with hot heads, cold hands and hazy minds. The room didn’t seem that succinct or specific. The world was tired, I was tired, so I slowly sank into the background and forced myself to focus on the tiny details: The shaggy orange carpet sleeping under my heels, earrings dangling from a cork board, the sound of Bright Eyes seeping from my speakers. Life could be simple if only I could have taken comfort in the way paint cracks and the smell of just-sharpened pencils.

~ by carik on August 31, 2008.