Sick Again (Naturally)

My throat is a wasteland, where crows feed on phlegm and chewed-up spinach, virgins come to die and friends' names are forgotten. Above it, my nose hovers, a red, bulbous, swollen semblance of a thing. The human face is a funny thing, says John Updike, a famous writer who suffers from severe psoriasis - where do the noses go when we kiss, why is it that some minute difference in the angle of one's cheekbones makes all the difference between beautiful and plain? When one is sick, it becomes even funnier. Who is this sallow stranger staring at me in the mirror? And why does she look like a bluish bola-bola with wren-brown hair?

It's you, but then it could be anyone. All my life I've suffered from this disease: a sudden inability to breathe, choking without really choking, as if a heavy man was straddling my chest, his hand tightening and untightening around my neck.

I have taken five or so pills in different colors: pink, white, yellow, white and black. Tomorrow, I will (hopefully) wake up without this invisible giant riding me for all I'm worth.