god doesn't know of gifts or blessings
this gift has condemned me. my umbrella is broken, the rain just falls through and hits my face like acid. god spits at me with agitation. what to do about that? he gave me the umbrella under the pretense of a gift. it was nothing to me. if somebody else befitted these aptitudes, i should dream soundly like anybody else. all but me. all but me. all but me. all but me. blocking the door, covering your mouth, spilling tears, starting every sentence with "im sorry," broken bottles, broken mouth, broken door, broken dreams, broken mind. broken wheels thumping every half minute. a worthless brain sparkling blue-pink. a movie rolling in black-white. thumping and turning and pounding.
this is the greatest curse. you say you don't dream yet here you are; all your teeth are falling out - and everyone is here to watch. how can you say you want without swallowing it? this is reality. the umbrella is broken, your stomach is clean and vacant, and your heart still beats. you're cursed, but you're breathing. and i think that's fine. you loud, aching, lamenting creature. i'm blessed, you know? unbeknownst to me, definitely! and now i have to deal with the aftermath! i hope all of you die an awful death! i'll be laughing! does your blood suffocate you? does your blood suffocate you?