bringtheacapella

He is polite sniffling and a covert snort, stifling a cough as he looks back to hold open the door like his mother taught him; he averts his eyes (recognized) and he’s hazily trying to remember a name, then where this story left off.         Failure, followed by awkward pauses- shifting weight from one foot to the other, thoughts of escape, and inwardly cursing this interruption. He’s lost his place. To backtrack: Awoke to choking on snot and spit, head pounding, and sweat. Hatred for this meatbag oozing fluids. Lung butter churning, incubated and gobbed on pollen-dusted pavement. Hacking, it feels like a knife