My clothes are in the dryer, and I am fading fast. I may not make it through the night. I shall set down my last will and testament on this pair of filthy underwear, coated with the sticky debris that is not mine. Alas, my ink will not hold; it soils me with its runny darkness.
Sometimes, when the rhythmic vomiting fits relax their hold on me, I dream of the time when my body was just a body. It is fleeting, however; the invaders within do not like it when I have thoughts, however innocuous. At those times I can feel them fighting for control, and I can see talking leopards menacing my periphery. Soon they regain control, and I must return to the ceramic palace.
What they are making of me, I do not know. They fill me with the urge to eat many strange things, which I am ashamed to describe. My old teeth would have worn down, but the new teeth they have made are strong. I can feel them moving in my mouth sometimes.
I am fortunate, I guess, that they have at least found something within me that they can still use, even if it means undergoing this painful transformation. Otherwise, I would no longer exist.
I am finding it difficult to move, now. They have made thousands of tiny tendrils, and I feel that they are now ready to bind me to the earth, to begin searching for something. Minerals, perhaps. Goodbye.