The cotton fills the room.
It surrounds my head.
Invisibly familiar, I’m so tired.
It fills my sinuses, fattens my ears, and scrapes my throat.
Oh… the process.
Cotton within, old burns without.
I’m snarky now and sometimes unkind, too.
But gawd… the cotton and the tired.
Oddly, I get more done this way.
With less righteous outrage, it’s easier to work an assembly line.
The babies wanted to be adults, and what?
What happened?
They got lost and got bigger bodies.
From larva filled with nothing but adorable, innocent fluids…
To awkward, eager pupae.
To hardened, molted adults.
Yes. Perfection. We made it.
But… adults don’t exist; only cotton exists.
Babies inside time-traveled bodies.
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