Day 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609...

I am a translucent sack of organs, a bloated bag of tissue stitched together by a thin red vein. And everyday before the dawn a phantom hand replaces my heart and brain and lungs and everything else with objects I hate or of no import. It is easy to confuse these foreign fragments as parts of my true aggregate, but as I rise from my slumber and the whites of my eyes meet the blinding light of the day, I cough up blood and smoke and damp brain cells and I know that these things cannot be right. I can't help but think about the automaton I have become, or the abstract idea of 'living' that has completely engulfed my life. What has been put into this shell? Could it be debasing my very soul? My liver is gone, nothing but a black hole remains. No stars or moons or planets, just vacuumed darkness inhibiting my central cavity. Lungs, no more, ragged mosquito nets occupy the empty spots beneath my chest. Heart is squashed, merely an aging pin cushion now, stabbed until the insides made out. It doesn't run, it doesn't beat, it doesn't give me hope for anything, if it ever did. It's just a fucking pump filled with fluff. My ribcage loose, the ribs clack uncontrollably under the weight of dead meat, like the insides of any feral confinement. I wince as they pinch against my melting body, sending ripples through the drawn up pieces of fat. Who am I but a manufactured heap of flesh? Who am I but a rotting corpse? Who am I but a human being? Who am I but a fraud? My head is filled with the brain of a man unknown to me, and as his skull aches I can only scratch and claw at my own forehead to drown out his incessant complaint. My only hope is that I can delay his inevitable trip to the ledge of our unconscious and save ourselves from plunging off the edge. But as my skin sheds and my nails thicken, my acceptance of this reality becomes stark. I do not know who or what this phantom is, or why he chooses to flood me with such scattered light, but what I do know is that I will never understand. Acceptance does not require understanding. And while I hate what he has done to me, I do not hate him, or it, or she, or they, or we, or me, or whatever have you, because I know all of it is who I am, and to hate myself would be a monstrous contradiction.

We're getting better everyday.