The chemo cocktail churns, a metallic serpent coiling in my gut, its venom rising, a bitter tide. The sterile air, a canvas for the symphony of beeps, a haunting counterpoint to the hollowness inside. My reflection mocks from the steel embrace of the chair, a gaunt caricature, eyes hollowed, skin the hue of despair. Each breath a labored rasp, a dry leaf skittering on stone, as the serpent writhes, promising oblivion's unknown. Sleep, a fragile escape, crumbles into a twisted dream. A figure cloaked in midnight strides across the barren plains, his scythe a crescent moon, casting an inky sheen on the cracked and thirsty earth, mirroring my ravaged veins. The Grim Reaper, eyes smoldering embers in the gloom, a silent judge, his gaze a pronouncement of impending doom. His skeletal hand reaches, cold and sure, to claim my soul, but a spark of defiance flares, a flicker to regain control. I lunge, a frail wisp against the night's cold embrace, but the figure fades, leaving on...
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