The work, which becomes a new genre itself...
The work, which becomes a new genre itself...
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2004-07-02-1:27 p.m. Now everything makes sense. Last week my throat was really sore yet no sickness. And then it would get sore, heal, get sore, heal. Now my mom is digging into all the herbal meds that help against shingles. I feel like I'm in a Harry Potter book. Now I won't be able to do Karate for sure. With that single nerve being super sensative (running from the right side of my neck, hitting on the side of my inner arm, up my shoulder, to my neck. It also hurts when I touch the side of my head or move my shoulder blade.) But then I'll probably pop all the shingles anyways, making more appear. At least I don't look like that guy on WebMD, he has enough shingles to play a monster game of connect the dots. I only have a few patches on my shoulder. But, I'm guessing more will form anyways. No going to the beach for awhile. Hey...where is Nurse Sarah when ya'need her? I wrote this yesterday... this is the very first draft. If it's shit, you would just be repeating that it's a first draft. "Running, running, over the empty snow field. Nothing, just level snow that left paw prints or caribou tracks as a memory. With the moon light there were no tracks tonight or the pervious night or the many nights of running, listening, and running. Within all that time, there were no howls to hear. The panting was the only sound and not even an enemy howl. Rival howls meant death but any howl. Was there any point in running this way? Would running the other way matter? Everything looked the same. Stopping, there was no more panting but only the wind. Its touch was pain on the face and unfamilar in sound. The wind never sang at night. The Wolf howled into the wind. His howl rose in pitch, filled the soundless void, battled the wind, warmed the snow. Then it dropped off making his chest ache. There was no response."
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