no sleep in hell
Everyone's a tourist in the land of influenza. Windows on the streetcar turn brown in the call-and-response of coughing.
I don't want a bus pass. I don't want a vaccine. I want to sleepwalk through last light of day without thinking about terminal invisibility.
This room was supposed to be temporary. But I think I'll be here forever, a visitor that never leaves.
I wonder what became of my imaginary friends. They never call. They never write.