the chicken.

i'm telling you that the stupid chicken crossed the road to say "Hallelujah."
mangled messages gleaned from scratching my skin raw and looking out of windows are aided by tears that soak my pillow and slip out of my eyes while i lounge around without the energy to lift myself and stand in the sunlight. i'm so good at doing all of the bad things all of the time. de temps en temps i manage to escape to some elevated plane of existence where nothing is physical and all spiritual, which only makes me cry a little bit more. so praying, or not--i'm a little whimpering baby who is going to die one day, anyway.