I believe I have extra eyes. They grow each day exponentially. I somehow know I’m going to perish from all that extra sight. Sometimes all I do is see and mutely cry in horror. Sometimes the grotesque reality of daily existence faintly resembles a splotch on an empty canvas. Like we’re beings slowly pulled apart into inevitable dissolution, but the landscape remains somberly vacuous. My eyes plague me with foresight of impending meaninglessness
written by Irina M. H.