Paperbag Writer. Day Twelve

I tell them that my coughing gets worse via my notebook, crossing out all the swearing which escapes from my shaking with fear fingers, as I write. I have fear, it came with the pancakes, it likes clothes, you feel what you eat, it was a scared banana. They keep telling me the magic thirty days which I’m counting already, as if I’ll get cured straight away.

The take my silence as a cue and turn around leaving me in my silence of agreement.

Day Thirteen