NEW YORK CITY, SATURDAY NOVEMBER 16, 2097. 3:50 AM
I could not sleep due to hunger and thirst. Pain had reached unbearable levels, so I plunged into the dark black space inside my iron box and began to pass my tongue against its walls so that I might fall on a cold spot to moisten my lips.
Nothing. All is dry, as the box is insulated with thick layers that prevent cold from leaking into its inner walls, I only wish for some water; only a few drops to wet my dry throat.
I imagined cascades, rivers, falls and cold bottles of water set in the far corner of my place. I tried to walk couple of steps toward them, but nothing was there. Just solid steel walls blocking me right from a few drops of water.
Am I dying? I asked myself I can no longer move my arm from the pain caused by the modified dose of vaccine.
I don’t want to die inside this dark box.
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