Technically, anyway. My heart doesn’t beat. I’m flatline on any EEG you’ve invented.

Moving fast, actually. This is my body, beautiful perfect and everlasting, animated by an eleven-dimensional infection that jerks it around like a puppet on strings. My blood flows out to the Lethe, to dimensions of endless dark and horror, and in exchange

But I’m bleeding out nonetheless. Every second every minute every day for all time plus tomorrow.

I need blood from somewhere.

This world abhors me. It keeps doing me favors, hoping I’ll leave. It won’t keep my fingerprints, it closes my bites as soon as I’ve made them. But it doesn’t care about you. Sure, it covers the marks I left with new skin that looks old. But inside, you’re suffering massive cell death, somewhere. I can’t get something for nothing.

The sun hates me, worst of all. It can’t do anything about my blood, so it does its best to burn through everything else that’s me.