She knows that she will die soon. Pain has become her reality. Woe is the queen abandoned by her people. No, this is not a reality fit for a queen. How fleeting. Her days are now spent in melancholic disregard atop her perch, listless eyes staring into the void of acceptance, awaiting the inevitable. Why must her body torment her so, contracting, tightening with greater intensity as each day passes, pulling at her very being, threatening to terminate her existence at any given moment? An involuntary pseudo-suicide. She knew that she would die soon. These were not empty threats. Her body would kill itself, kill her. She just wished it would hurry up already. 

Why is this so dastardly difficult? The inhumanity of it. How insensitive it is. What a complete lack of understanding for those without proper motor control.  Thank God for this handrail though.  Even if I can make it up, will I be able to come down again? If? Too late to think if, I’ve already begun. Hmm... let’s check; three steps. Of course only three. Don’t taunt me! Even though I very well may be imprisoning myself within this library, I will conquer these steps. I hope that those carved words above the door actually read 'City Library'. No, I don’t have room for doubt. No more fickleness… I just remembered I can’t remember my name. Maybe I ought to stop taking these breaks to write on my phone and just get to the top… but what if I forget? Then it isn’t important.

The sun is setting.  Odd that I haven’t seen any of those creatures lumbering about this area.

One more step… really? I stopped to note that?

There was a ramp. The doors are locked.

A lower-class stucco community seemingly just plopped within a sprawling region of reinforced concrete towers; apartment buildings systematically placed along the periphery of an unkempt courtyard, a  facade of tranquillity  within the variegated fortresses of stone and glass competing for aerial dominance, a solitary patch of green in an area subjugated by the grey of human necessity...
My apartment...
The visual beamed me into existence. 
My existence...

Can one dream while awake? Can one dream within a dream? What foolish questions. Had I the answers, what then? Dreams are an escape; dreams are windows into our souls; dreams are an attempt to process experiences; dreams are our minds lost in the infinite expanse of nothingness; dreams are glimpses into alternate realities; dreams are confused messages from god trying to speak in our language; dreams are void of meaning; dreams are all possibilities at once.  

Dreams are what I fear.

The creature in the mirror: he is terrifying. He resembles a rotting human; his pasty skin clings to his withered frame, exposed wounds festering in the open air. He sways when he stands, giving the impression that he may lunge at any moment, that he may sink his teeth into your unsuspecting jugular, relentlessly pulling and tearing, obstructing any attempts at screaming for help. Screaming is a futile effort; despite his feeble frame, he is astonishingly difficult to wriggle free from. Perhaps it is the fear that is incapacitating, or perhaps it is the incomprehensible circumstance of being eaten. Or rather, perhaps it is the visual of watching this creature excavate your body that is crippling and steals your hope. Whatever the case, it is best not to scream. It is a paradoxical  sort of silver lining that the blood pools up in your throat, muffles any screams and coverts them instead into a sort of wet gasping and gurgling not unlike the sounds this very creature has the tendency to make. Even had a scream materialized, the creature would have fed on any and all who may have come scrambling to your aid; he does not discriminate. Mother, brother, child; he would eat any of them, he would stifle their screams much as he did yours, all while you watched, your vision dimming as your life gradually abandons you. He would feel nothing. He is devoid of feelings. He does, however, stand and sway.

Two exceedingly unimaginable things happened today, though I’m unsure as to whether or not they were on a different day or the same, but they did occur. My memory isn’t always faulty. But how to start? With a conjunction after a period? Did I already start? Forget that I did. Prosaic and poetical; that is my beginning. Is that a dichotomy? An exercise in remembrance. Please forgive my words, though, if they are clumsy. My mind is still clumsy. An excuse for my inability as an author? Here now, here are my thoughts laid bare, but treat them gently whosoever may read them. What treatise is this? Here, a painting that I have painted, but avert your eyes unless you will say that it is good, a masterpiece even—I ought to put down this gadget and resign myself to the impossibility of my situation, to the ludicrousness of my hope, but I can’t. I can’t remove this gadget from my hand. I can’t imagine what I would do without it. Teach myself to write with my left hand? Blasphemous. Though, I am a walking blasphemy in and of myself—I haven’t started have I? I suppose I already have, and much more than that. Begin again then————I hope that means a long pause… again? Long pause to reestablish mood. Okay?

Eduardo DeLeon. Also an organ donor, fancy that. Although, I doubt the scene unfolding outside is what you had in mind. What is it that is unfolding outside you ask, dearest theoretical reader? Why, it's a community feast! So lively, this social gathering; family and friends from all around have gathered to dine on Mr. DeLeon. The generosity of this man, truly, it knows no bounds. Splayed out on the asphalt, baking under the sun — Oh! I see that he's provided punch for his guests, very thoughtful indeed. It may be a bit warm and the texture is a tad thick, but all is well, the thought is there and a good party-planner never forgets  beverages. But it would appear that folks might be getting a little too rambunctious; it's spilling everywhere... what a mess. ​

The moon is just a sliver. Just a sliver. Is it waxing or waning? And I? No, I don’t want to broach the topic. Let’s remember something, escape the now… hmm… “oh, yes,” I thought, “I was… uh… I was going somewhere.” I stole my vision away from the gadget held in my palm and stowed it away into my pocket. Poor sap. I wonder if he will mind that I took his… box thing?

I looked about me. A forest? I hadn’t… ah, yes, branches and brambles, a crisscross of scattered light; are those crepuscular as well? So…?

I don't know how to feel about you. Your existence was needlessly terminated and I watched it all. I should have feelings about what I saw. I should be horrified, angry, stricken with grief, something, but there are only ponderings. Why is it that I feel nothing? And yet, I felt some inclination to come see you, one which I cannot explain. There I was, slinking across the parking lot as you had done but moments before, hovering over your corpse, looking down on your face, frozen in an expression of bewilderment, forehead dripping like a leaky spigot. On second thought, I'm not so sure 'slinking' is an accurate description of my trek; 'floundering' is more appropriate, but I digress...I have thoughts, but they are only thoughts; mechanical. They lack spice. They're flavorless. No wait, it's more like...hmm, there is no pizzazz, no passion, no 'oomph'...Alas, it would appear that I am uncertain how to properly describe 'feelings,' but I am certain in that I do not have them. It would also appear that I am quite fond of the application of quotation marks. Was the impulse to come see you a 'feeling?' I will have to think more on this.