Transmission

(forgive the grammar errors, i dont have the patience to care)

I feel like a dying artist, somber melodies playing in a silent room barely touched by the fading light from the sun. Work desk cluttered with a mixture of memorabilia and assorted candy trapped in orange bottles with white caps, giving you not a sugar rush but a relief from days of pain. Waves of uneasy chills roll up and down my body without stopping forcing me to wear gloves, old sweatshirts and baggy sweatpants. The house is an empty one family is gone doing what they do best, entertaining everybody but themselves. Do not misunderstand my meaning, there is no grip of melancholy feelings here, just observations. I will not let this slow me down, infection breaksdown the body, not the soul. i promise you this, an illustration i will have by the end of this day, one that will bring tears of love not of sorrow.