'medicine'

I load the plastic bullet of light to penetrate the ageless night, I empty the cardboard cartridge, packed in foil. Every dusk; load, aim, fire. Every dawn; load, aim, fire. Every shot is an execution by a mini-militia of armsmen to my soul. It ricochets into the throat, streaming down the moat of my esophagus. The taste, bitter and dry, the sensation takes an eternity to wain out and die. Then nothing. Completely void. ‘Absence’; the absence immune to the bite, a constant fight to control the right over the day and the night. All thanks to a plastic bullet, it ended the creature comforts of the night. Given to me by the weatherman coated in white.