The Measurements of Decay

by K.K. Edin

Yes, how terrible and worrisome when those externals became like organs, unfastened by bones or flesh to their hosts. Victims, all of us, to a life eroded by digital rain, pickaxed apart by bits and digits, with the small death of ring after ring ghosting through the cracks—each one a momentary, thin spike slid into the ego, bruising it, whispering, “You’re nothing” into it, compounding fractures in it, year after year, until the result was a paranoid beast unable to disconnect its mind from its pocket as it bulged with a poisoned treasure.