|chamomile|

Permeating.

That’s what it is.

Stuck to the walls of my throat

So I cannot breathe.

Like a head cold,

But less benign.

Choking, or in

Cloying clouds,

It eats away

At the soul.

-of toska, i

(day seventy-five)

Some days feel overwhelming, even before they’ve begun.

And then some days don’t ever begin.

-Viens avec moi.

xx

I will seek forever out of the hope that I am wrong,

and the fear that I am right.