My stomach twists

and I'm feeling a strange state where my skin feels alien.

No.

Its not disease.

At least not a physical one my immune system can fight.

Strange.

I feel like a Bright Eyes song.

Or maybe certain Scarlet ones.

And definitely feeling Misery Signals.

Off to face myself.

In the mirror.

And trim my over grown facial (chin) hair.

This is Sartre's nausea.

It's amazing.

Everything has a specific feel.

And taste.

A smell.

A sound.

Every nerve is filled with ashes.

And my camera's batteries died.