Orange cough drops. The sun falls down on our inconsequential town. Sickness is laborious, and the two shades of green I know. Sage (before anyone cared to call it matcha). Lime. Just lime. Somehow, in the nauseousness of it all, illness makes itself pretty. Tangerine red smears, the geography of my bloodstream, rivers through my sick. I'm sick sick. The kind of sarcastic sickness that makes friends with corrosive medication for the plot and will proceed to hack up your guts when the weather is too nice and it needs to find a way to bring you back to sodden streets, to the tiny towness of it all, or else you'll get too hopeful. Or else the sun falling will become the resting sun, a sun held within the smallness of the town. Too bad it's already the way I see the world.
