The sky isn't visible at this point.
The solution isn't visible.
It's all filled up with the yells and angry screams of you.
You're very existence brings an aching to my head; a spear through the brain. My muscles get torn from the force of clenching my teeth together.
You defamiliarize the defamiliarization.
I do wonder why you can't be decent. Where's your damn tolerance? Identifying me with my religion and beliefs, as if those are all that matter?
Does the smoke muffle my words? Or do you just not care about the rest? What about me? What about my personality? What about my strengths and my downfalls? What about my hobbies?
What about the way I stand? The color of my hair? My God damn *name*?
The smoke is all I breathe and all I drink at this point. I vomit and cough out the grayish mercury liquid, and the fumes tying around my neck like a sharp floss. It *cuts*.
Into my insides, deeper and deeper, killing my already brutalized body.
Jesus Christ, you really refuse to stop, don't you?
"Why do his problems matter to you?"
Because he's my friend.
He's my f***ing friend. My f***ing friend who puts up with you. My f***ing friend who helped *me* when I was struggling.
Why shouldn't I help him? I shouldn't I be a good person to him, which you've rarely been? Why can't I--
I cough again. It feels like a surgery without anesthesia. The exhaust shuts up my damn words, again.
You aren't tolerant.
You refuse to go away.
Are you the smoke?
Is that why I can't find and beat the s*** out of you?
It would make sense.
Fumes trapped in walls and refusing to leave, in your little prison. Trapped in your own victimization, like you have Stockholm Syndrome.
Fumes that stay and choke me relentlessly.
It really does make sense.
And that must be the answer.
The problem isn't the smog.
Well, you're also the problem...
You're the damn smog.