I haven't moved in years. Of course, I wish I could. But I can't. Whenever I do, it stops me.
I cannot walk. I cannot sit. I can barely breathe without it happening. I sleep standing... when I sleep. I've spent countless nights awake, in fear that it will happen again. It controls me. It controls me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
Even as I'm writing this, I can feel it beginning to well up. There's no escaping it.
The spaghetti. It fills my pockets. The last time that I tried to clean it up, I fell on the floor. Everybody walk the dinosaur.
YOU ARE READING
Still
Short StoryI had this idea while I was in the shower. I have no idea how this will turn out. Oops.
