the worst part about being alone
 and sick
 is being sick
 but perhaps the second worst
 is having no one to comfort you
  
 He reminded himself aloud
 that it was
 his own choice
 and rolled on the carpet and
 pushed his thumbs inside his eyes
  
 The head was killing him, like the
 brain grew legs and constantly
 kneed his eyeballs from the inside,
 seeking to push them out like caps of
 beer bottles
 and exit through the holes
  
 And his stomach wasn't any better
 although it got everything
 out some time ago
  
 The first few coughs
 came with liquid, pungent vomit
 but now there was only blood
  
 "You can only get what you
 deserve," whispered the faded silhouette
 from the mirror. "You might think
 all this is caused by the bottle of wine
 you found while dumpster diving as you do. It
 had been opened and had no label
 but you thought 'ah, what the hell, wine
 doesn't expire. It's probably still good.'
 Hah! It's not the wine, you cretin!
 It's you. You alone are the cause of all trouble,
 of all that's going sour in your life."
  
 "Fuck you," he said
  
 "Oh? That all you can say? You piece
 of filth. I hope you don't recover from this
 and finally do a service to the world
 and stay dead."
  
 But the words infused him
 with the
 needed adrenaline to keep living
  
 On the next morning he
 was feeling almost right
  
 He dressed up and stood before the
 mirror to laugh at the silhouette
 but it was no longer there
  
 "Ah, that's right," he said. "You died a
 long time ago, mother. Thank you
 for your service."

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