5%
I race against the battery to type this out, my gut slumps over my trousers and catches my button. The clock reads 7:28pm.
4%
Laughing heads on the book shelves tell me to shush, the cat says the walls are too red and the buxom newscaster informs me I've gotten fatter. If the scabs in my lips crack any furth-
Let me try again, I scrap the scraps and chase the blinking cursor back to it's hiding place.
3%
Shadows of migraines tiptoe behind my temple, lack of symmetry and blank pages throwbacks to days when ingested red crayons collided with dysentery.
Scratch that.
2%
I'm dead.