Every day when I wake, I put a sword to my chest.
My flesh, deprived of life, withers like a flower without water or a leaf in fall. Skin welts off of my body in rolls, like a thick layer of leather.
I can see my armor now. I can see it as clear as day and as dark as night. White, white, white.
The day drags on, and my flesh begins to take a mind of its own. The sword has fallen, and the wound has closed. All was as it was before, and when I wake again in the marrow, I’ll do what I had once done before and put a fiery, burning sword to my chest.
No, it’s not easy.
…
But I know it’s what’s best.