Every Morning

Every joint that pops, every ligament that creaks is a warning. A cry for help echoing down a distant canyon, from the withered lungs of your future self screaming out their last breath. Soon, you'll see where all the color went when it left your face - it pooled in your stomach, waiting to burst into green and yellow pus. Crept into the red branches of your bloodshot eyes. It gushed into every decaying crevice, in advance of an unstoppable countdown. Now begins the counting of “lasts,“ the last time you'll visit a foreign country, the last time you'll hold a loved one in your arms, the last time you'll eat food that makes you smile or hear music that moves you to tears. Soon you won't be able to leave your couch, or chew anything but your own tongue. Soon you won't have the faculties to hear, or even cry. Take a deep breath, turn your head up to the sky and listen to your body. Can you hear it coming? Because it hears you. *** ANYWAY, presales are absolutely fl