For what it's worth.

This tickle in my throat is making me cough up blood. It leaks down out my nose, foolishly.
I feel the need to hide it. Eight minutes have gone by, and I'm giddy with the thought of it.
It offers every explanation, the graceless humility, the pulsing fatigue, swept away in the deluge I've come to know so well.
Isn't it just too much for you to handle?
From one day to the next we move so slowly we're sure to split in two by some crazed mitosis.
Now an hour's past has rhythm. It goes by even faster when you're not watching the clock.
But were certain someone else knows the time.