Intently clinging to newfound memories of what I used to be, I get lost in the patter of the day to day that consumes me.
The daily grind involves staring blankly and waiting. For something. The daily grind leaves me eviscerated and voided.
There's no doing because I am a foreclosed slaughterhouse, producing only tattered and rotting remnants suitable only for my consumption (still dead, still a poison, still I eat).
The cancer within me is is no longer within me, but it's still growing and looming larger and larger and I am desperate to escape its shadow.