Daily Roach: Feb. 18th

I saw you collecting sea-shells, alabaster hope, your hair a dense wave of brown on the wind, a thick and viable chocolate in the unending breeze.

Daily Roach: Feb. 17th

Sadness struck formidable, a great mountain, then simmered into grief, a puddle.

Daily Roach: Feb. 16th

Eloquence without meaning is the plump drug of the dying.

Daily Roach: Feb. 15th

On words he came walking, syllable-stride and grammar-grin, his rhetoric a machine gun of run-on sentences.

Daily Roach: Feb. 14th

Her heart fluttered, an anxious bird of flight, imagination taken and let loose amongst the clouds, the air, the heights.

Daily Roach: Feb. 13th

Disease gives Death athlete's legs so she can win the race.

Miss Pneumonia

Miss Pneumonia decided to come over, in tow her miserable children, to occupy the house of my body for an undetermined amount of time. The children, you see, love the many rooms of this house, and as soon as they arrive, spread out across my humble mansion in search of their favourite corners. One is particularly keen on the chamber of my throat. He has just experienced a rather exciting soccer game, and so forgetting to take off his cleats runs around my oesophagus, cutting up the floor and pretending he is still back in the game. Two nasty ones have a taste for the vaulted ceilings of my lungs. They are running up and down the maze-like stairs, stomping and shrieking and full of glee. There is a big fat one who eats too much sweets, and he prefers the dome of my head. He is a little dumb, too, so he just bounces around in there, directing his uncompromising mass against the gelatinous walls of my skull. There are twins in my ears, one to each side. They are yet babes, and they are crying and kicking for food, so that every once and a while a tiny foot strikes the eardrum and makes the whole house boom. Several have collected in various muscles, and they wander from place to place, deciding to test the walls every once in a while with a well-timed punch or an unexpected jab of the elbow. (They forget ever being here before, and so are trying their hardest to remember through total immersion therapy.) A tenfold tribe has taken to the circumference of my eyes, five to each pupil, and they gather around the grey light of my irises, there lying down to sleep and press their weight against the floor, so that the eyelids never cease drooping, and my normal visage is changed from one who is awake to one who cannot decide. I hate them. Perhaps the most disconcerting of all is that I cannot find Miss Pneumonia. Every time I explore a room that I am certain she occupies, she at once disappears. I wish to solicit her, you see, so that I can determine how long she plans to stay. I would offer her tea. I would offer her crumpets. I would offer her anything, so long as she leaves. But she remains aloof, unseen, as though in her absence she ensures the keeping of the living place of her children, delighting and joying in them as only a mother can.