The Monster Stress Hath Begotten [04.12.02]
My stride is staccato. My legs are pistons, driving the body onward despite its exhaustion, each step bringing me closer to oblivion. My feet strike hard, strike true, in perfect meter; I walk in iambic pentameter. Or perhaps trochaic tetrameter. One barely has time to count the syllabic slaps of galvanized rubber on concrete before avoiding the juggernaut I have become. My spine, bent by the immense encumbrances I continuously carry; my stature, when speedwalking, ever so slightly slouched to lower my center of gravity and push me on. My arms, frenetic pendulums, swinging and shifting the weight of my body with every revolution. My face, a vicious visage: brows furrowed, mouth taut, piercing brown eyes falling upon everything, analyzing, questioning, remembering, impaling. My voice is stentorian but strained.
Passersby leap aside to avoid me, knowing full well the mass amassed behind me, aware of the damage I could cause with collision. Some look into my eyes and are stricken by the depth of my gaze, by the fatigue and hopelessness captured forever in its boundless orbs. Others simply avoid me in the halls, not wishing to be caught up in the bedlam that is my life.
[Exit Orpheum.]
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