I wake up, disoriented entirely, entirely disoriented. My view is a blurry haze of hazy blur. I cannot move. An unfamiliar miasma impedes my awareness of self. Or maybe it’s the morphine. I scour the scene for my bearings when
[If you have not yet read Part Un, it’s over here.] I spend several weeks in the hospital, culminating in a scheduled major surgery being postponed minutes before the operation, as it is deemed too risky at the time. Discharged
[Coming Soon! Weeeeeeeeeee!]
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[Editor’s note: The following was written in and about a competition that took place in 2013. The author has since shown significant maturation and understands why he should never have taken part in this madness.] Beginning on the midnight between
I spend my 30th birthday in a hospital bed, separated by a curtain from a man who cannot walk. Two days earlier, I was diagnosed with cancer, in the form of a gastrointestinal stromal tumour. To give you the gist