Linguistic Erosion

Contributor: Michael A. Withell - - I'm tired and I can't remember why they didn't bring me my tablets. I have my tablets every morning at six, it's strange that no-one brought them to me. The lady walks over to my bed, touches me on the face. Not too hard. And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold? Cold; it's cold in here. The Sun seems to be on the other side of the corridor and it's dark. I can even begin to see my breath in front of my eyes, dancing in the remnants of the morning light. You shouldn't smoke in here, they'd say to me; but I'm not smoking. It's the cold, I'd say, A picture painted by my very lungs. The door in front of me is open and my breath quickens in apprehension...

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