This flesh makes me so selfish. I can feel it tugging and wanting it’s way. They say my only recourse is to pray. It’s always inching towards it’s doom holding hands with time and writing letters to the tomb but it won’t cease one second till it’s rotting and resting, Something always clicking turning and manifesting. I refresh, then I tire, flip over repeat. A big pile of mess squashed in flesh meat. I feel it tugging wanting it’s way.