Today I am feeling, well, not myself. I am feeling you, you, and you.
And febrile.
My body's shareholders throw a party in my throat.
How can they just sit there--
Mister Gullet eating foie gras; Madame Trachea finishing off the stinky tofu--
while the anatomy's industrial average nose-dives into the punch bowl?
The insider trader gets a tip: Perspire will merge with Respire to form Expire.
The dance floor belongs to sickness and sweat; their moves whisper
tender offers of bliss.
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