I hadn't eaten all day.
Faint words echoed in the cavities of my near-empty skull and the incessant ringing outweighed the ever-present banging of drums in my ears. Glasses had never been a necessity, yet I could barely see the stars clouding the space before me, where my eyes should have been. My knees felt weak, losing their fight to the floor and giving up all their coin to the unforgiving chill of the tiles.
A mother and her son were staring at the strange creature of rage and angst and fear, crouched low and painfully on the unyieldingly clean stone floor. I stood up-- the universe charged at me to fall. So it could drag my bloody and beaten up carcass through the mud and back again. So I fell down again, sickness taking over the place in my head where reason and logic once resided. Eyes shut, the stars were no longer blurrily visible. It was a shame, they were too pretty to waste on pupils that couldn't see them in the first place.
This, like everything else (both good and bad) soon came to pass. It was a shame, because stars could be beautifully murderous.
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Incipient
PoesíaIN•CIP•I•ENT inˈsipēənt/ adjective •in an initial stage; beginning to happen or develop. •(of a person) developing into a specified type or role.
