Friday, August 19, 2011


I can feel it inside of me.

It's like some kind of slime, slithering through my veins. I feel a need, no, an obsession, with, of all things, counting the hairs on my arms. I keep losing count and having to start over.

This is the favor, isn't it? The debt I owe to the Ichor. It's coming to collect. It's infested me, and now it's replacing my bodily fluids with its own ink.

Soon, I'll lose myself. I'll become a Camper, just another limb of the Ichor.

Maybe it's what I deserve.


  1. Hello. How are you? I am fine. The computer is on. I am reading on it.

  2. Steward, come to Jersey. I will try to get rid of it. I helped Lullaby with her little friend. I can try to help you too.