[cafe] aya

-*-*-*-*-*-

The feet of somebody (I'm not sure if I'm me, I'm just somebody, I know that) are light. Many think (not many people in District 3, however) that when you're dying, everything is heavy. It takes a dying person to know how it feels, but it's light. Each step feels like I've lifted a tad, as if I'm resisting whatever has become of gravity to push my foot down to the ground. It's my consequence for doing what I shouldn't -- stealing. Oh dear God, I'm dying. My filthy hands, burned and blistered have lost feeling in the tips, chemical mishaps of stolen blueprints that never concluded to be successful.

I'm not sure of what my voice is like, either. Stealing and moving into my grandmother's house with her ill corpse long disposed of gives an IV of chlorofluorocarbons. District 3 has been controlled by the Capitol for far too long but we've enjoyed it. It's given us opportunities to open our minds to whatever we wanted, given us a chance to creep up on our ideas and latch our hands around their throats. We look for knowledge as if it's the Holy Grail.

I know not of what I know not of, I know what I know. I'm searching for answers and fumbling for benefit; pleasure.

The ground beneath my feet acts as a spring that slows down time. I'm not sure if the morphling I took in is the cause of this or the smoke that bellows out of the smoke towers our factories spill out. They're the clouds in the sky but with poison, instead of water it's death.

I'm not exactly sure of what where why I'm going, but I hope that the benefit I've been searching for is found.

A logical answer is to move. Away from the factories, so that I'm not dying more and more each day, and maybe it's to stop taking so much toxicity. Maybe if I used the brain I had then the brain I had would be much stronger.

I can feel my mouth. It is dry and my throat is shriveling inside of me. But I'm not sad. Or mad. In fact I'm supposed to be happy, elated on this drug. And sometimes it does but not now. I'm not happy now. I need an escape I need to leave, I need to know if I'm meant to live or if I'm meant to die. If only I were reaped.

I open the door to a cafe, glass windows showcase citizens dining on coffee in stained white mugs, the steam rise up to their nose creating a condensed film of moisture. Maybe I can wash away everything with a bit of caffeine.

-*-*-*-*-*-

[ooc: i used write or die, sorry it sucks and if you can't understand it :p feel free to do whatever you like, and totally blitzing it up, yeahh!