I used to keep time in a box, precious moments I saved for some other day. The other day I fell and broke that precious box, driving slivers deep into my hands. They have become infected and puss runs from those slivers.



In the last few days the infection has become worse and in my fevered state I can feel all those moments I had saved slowly dripping away with my blood, rivulets of bright days mixed with the yellow putrescence. Each drop bringing me closer to that clandestine meeting with my maker, and when that happens someone will place me inside another box, and I shall remain there, all my days gone.