The pills taste like chalk and regret.

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2026-06-03 12:54:46 -

I counted them on the kitchen counter this morning. Seven bottles, twenty-one pills. Seven different chemicals trying to hold together a body that wants to fall apart. The doctor calls it "chronic rejection syndrome." I call it Tuesday. Outside, the sky was the color of a television tuned to a dead channel. Gray. Flat. The kind of gray that settles over the Rust Belt in November and stays until...

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