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They Say I'm Sick by Andrew J. Stone

The room walked around my eyes counterclockwise. The man sitting in the sun burnt chair clinched his chin in criticism. My forehead sweatclouds and the scratch of the pen on paper drones over silence. The psychologist suddenly stops recording my voice and asks how I feel. Dead, I feel dead.




Andrew J. Stone lives and writes in Southern California with iced coffee and mint tea. His previous publications have probably been posted on his Twitter at http://twitter.com/#!/AndrewJStone1.