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one morning i woke up with a terrible pain in my chest. i felt the violent budding of unformed words and coughed up a tiny ball of black smoke. the little cloud clung to me, hovering below my neck like a strange pendant, until...

one morning i woke to find the smoke had unfurled to envelop my head. coal-colored plumes obscured my vision and invaded my lungs, and i flailed about in vain hopelessly fighting to dispel the fog, until...

one morning i woke up to a gentle voice and the cool embrace of silk velvet against my face. "don't worry," you whispered, "the blindfold will help you forget about the fog." i felt calm in the pitch black, even as i struggled to catch my breath. gasping for air, it occured to me i might be choking on the truth, and then...

one morning i woke up to blazing sun announcing itself in a dusty room filled with many unknown instruments, glass beakers, open flames and heaps of various powders. i heard your voice echoing in the corner-- "too many words, too many words." i saw the truth i had expelled on the cold stone floor, and carefully scooped up every broken vowel and bile-covered consonant. i dropped the sticky mess into an empty cauldron, lit a fire beneath it, and watched as my words began to boil. a familiar black cloud escaped from the brew and darted around the room. after many failed attempts i managed to capture the vapors and begin the distillation. when it was finished all that remained was a dim point of light. i put it in a locket that i wear around my neck, and now...

every morning i wake up in search of little points of light, and i live for the fleeting fragments of the song you softly sing to me as i harvest my words.