Have you ever felt that you hurt so much that you didn't even feel anything but that small, uncomfortable tugging in that little space between your two ribcages and right above your stomach?

You don't feel your hands and fingers, but you know they're moving: gripping life around the butt of a cigarette or the waist of that wine glass; seeking comfort amongst the fur of your cat; hunting stress through the root of your hair that you violently tear out; sheltering sanity inside the cages of letters on your paper or those intricate colors on your canvas.

You don't feel your eyes are working properly, but you know for sure they're crystallized; one more pressure, and they're ready to be liquefied.

You don't feel your heart and breath, but you know they lose their rhythms and beats; they're not synchronized; they're two bands playing in one venue at the same time.

You don't feel your legs and feet, but you know that if you decide to get up from your bed and finally stand, they are Panna Cotta, jelly with no energy or density.

You don't feel anything anymore. Nothing other than that uncomfortable little tug, and you know that everything is wrong.

22 January 2023. You die. Or You don't sleep as usual.