It's like cancer. Like sick, depraved cancer. It's eating me from the inside out. I do nothing to stop the onslaught. I wade knee deep in it's metaphorical waters. I feel it slide over me slimy smooth, soft and bitter-cold. The candle wick is bent into the wind, and the flame threatens to plume out of existence at any suspect gust from the approaching storm.
It's like waiting for the world to end.