On a bitter November morning under a static sunless sky, I'm again waiting for the bus to go to my second appointment of the week. My body still hasn't recovered from the last appointment. I lean against a brick wall and covetously eye the one and only bench. The wind stirs, and frigid air stings my skin. I try and fall deeper into the layers of wool and polyester bound up around my pain-wracked body. What's worse than the pain, though, is the nagging itch on my upper back unreachable through multiple sweatshirts. "It's going to be another 20 minutes," someone mumbles. A minor inconvenience for most, but my reserve of spare time is running critically low. When the bus finally arrives, everyone is piling on before I'm even able to push myself from the wall. When it's my turn to get on, I have to climb the stairs slowly, one foot at a time. Standing in the aisle, I can see the eyes of the young and the healthy turn quickly away from me. I'm obviousl
This is a collection of anecdotes from the fringes of reality, a tapestry stitched together from our dreams as well as our nightmares, from the fears that haunt the collective imagination. These are the symptoms of the sickness known as the human condition.