the FOURTH of SEPTEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.
sometimes, everything sounds like it's underwater.
i spit it out, the soundwaves clear.
temporary drowning. dragged into the depths.
i spit it out again; the chlorine still burns.
you can't grip onto water.
it is sustenance, it is life, it is death.
yet it is too delicate to hold.
take me back!