My mirror is spitting bile into my face again, bulging my depthless eyes. Their light blue irises are gradually merging with the whites; they are faded, washed out by the diligence of gentle cleansing cream wash twice a day, burned out from inside, overflowed with crimson impatience. Then the world turns into a constant stream of dazzling white, strange melting shapes are floating on its surface.
I am jiggling my eyeballs and reading a poem in Braille. Wibble wobble, wibble wobble, jiggle joggle, jiggle joggle, bibble bobble, bibble bobble. The poem amiably pats me on the shoulder. 'Don"t be scared, next horizon"s just round the corner', it says .
contagious with myself contagious with myself contagious with myself