you open your eyes and the next twenty-four hours are building into a cluster of storm clouds above your head and all day you are convinced tiny pellets of the coldest rain are falling from the ceiling, the sky, from anywhere really but the weather forecast proves you wrong still, you know it is coming, looming in the distance and you would sooner believe your heart as a mechanical machine than deny the inevitable onslaught of the malevolent future. the mirror is chanting of your insanity, your eyes of your deterioration and you aren’t blind, you know what they’re seeing and you aren’t deaf, you hear what they’re saying but you swear the world is melting all around you, colors drooling and dissipating in a matter of seconds and each inhale is a pinprick and with each exhale you are deflating but nothing is noticeably different, not really, at least, except today, all of your ghosts left their graves and are standing on your doorstep, ringing the doorbell, incessantly, and today, you are expected to spend quality time with them, face to face.