Darkroom

Black Masterpiece

It's 3:37 am, and the spore swarms from the black mold are insidiously clutching onto my bronchioles, mindlessly feeding on the plump grapes in my air sacs with piggish gluttony. In their selfish apathy, they have succeeded in contaminating the oxygen in my bloodstream with their greasy little toxic secretions.

Respiratory distress, unusual rash formations, abnormal skin sensations, abdominal pain, bloating, diarrhea, chronic cough–and I haven't even brewed my morning coffee yet. 

Every breath I take is a piecemeal necrosis–a symphonic masterpiece of mycotoxin discord.

I need medical attention, but my doctor is an incompetent, and I have shitty insurance. I will surely die, but I'm ready. The only thing that brings me sharp grief are my precious darkroom prints–what will happen to my well-preserved archives when I die? I hope whoever finds them conserves them for posterity.

I have to admit, The Dragon Master has a soft spot–in his FUCKING LUNGS. GET OUT OF MY RESPIRATORY AIRWAYS YOU TOXIC BLACK MOLD MOTHERFUCKERS!