Day 2: my veins are now vines. 

There’s been another security breech in which my capillaries have
shed like snakes and are now webbed rhizomes. It had, all along,
been a conspiracy of spores. My wrists suddenly shone green while 
I wrote, photosynthesizing at 3pm. A hand jerked to my head to 
check if there were leaves and there weren’t; I breathed and let 
my vascular neurons pollinate, microscopic blossoms bursting with 
every fired synapse behind my eyes. The vines filling up my casing 
stopped. But, at that point, I found I wanted them to burst from 
under my fingernails and take up the pen for me; they never did. 
Nor did the bees stick-and-poke words on the wall or my skin 
yesterday to help me decipher any code. 

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