It could have been one night, but instead it was one day. Something I knew would happen, all the way down to the fact that it wouldn’t matter to me afterward. As an illustration, it marked the harsh lack of chemistry while remaining kind. When it’s right, I cling. I am buried entirely. Ahead of time I know. Ahead of time I decide that the best I can do is try. I know it’s going to hurt, that some delicate thing is going to rip out of my inability to prepare. I’m aware that I’m not going to shake. My illusions weren’t shattered, the pressure was enough to shred unwilling membrane, a debt paid over again but I’ve done similar before, even lived with someone for six months where I paid almost daily but couldn’t gather interest. I let them captain the ship through horrible storm, haunted by violence and spoken words of You’re Never Worthy For me. Now I’m not as young. I’m acutely informed that there has to be a seed for there to be a blossom.
He’s since fallen into the sea, washing over deck into a body of addiction. We think he’s dead now, meth burned and vanished.
Regulators in the US could soon be asked to approve a human trial of gene therapy for cystic fibrosis that uses a hybrid of the HIV and Ebola viruses. In spite of my sketchy grasp of such technology, I can’t see how this is anything but a wretchedly stupid idea for a new Michael Crichton novel. The robots what run on blood might like it: Enter Hero Scientist, enter Military General. Hilarity Ensues. As does Much Bleeding From The Eyes.