بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

maybe an end would be nicer or cleaner, perhaps brighter or neater, than an endless cycle of cellular warfare, where there is no victor. once more the paradox strikes, steps taken supposedly to extend and improve upon life, yet their taste on the tongue remains mostly of decay and senses maligned more than made right. someone once told me, this too shall pass, wish my body agreed, stuck in these moments, where the only escape one finds, just within sleep.