Living in a gently warped existence: among those who’ve forgotten how to starve, pretending to be full.

a small parasite grows at the edge of my eye. i no longer ask “what is this.” because everything already feels like “what is this.” everyone i look at: blurry. everything i touch: a screen.

and someone is still watching. i don’t know who they are, but their hands resemble mine. they’re not searching for me, but they’re multiplying me.