It pays to feel dead inside.
I think a specialist should be called. Because I am no longer afraid of dying. There must be something wrong with me because I can’t seem to breath. Feeling is a hassle. A tiny curse that floats with dreaded smoke to fill the air. It stares without a care. I hold my phone near and call up every doctor in the region. Stick a note to my chest to see if they can hear me. I think the specialist is to weak. They meekly shake their heads at me while sticking me with pins. The curse is floating in my ears. They stare for they fear that I will attack but I can’t. But I won’t. I just grab my curse and run. I think there is something wrong with me. I can’t not bring myself to care if I am alive or trult dead and I think this fact is very sad.