“We shelter in our skin storm."
Thank you so much Aubrey! You’ve helped make my day.If the lung infection kills you, maybe what will happen is this. You'll make your final post (a maudlin poem about being on your deathbed and despairing that Morrissey will never come for you) and then your account will go silent forever. Carlislebaz and nicky wire's legs will bicker over whether you're dead, faking your own death for attention, in the hospital, in the loony bin, or kidnapped by Gary Day, though even that stuff will peter out after a time, and you'll be pretty well forgotten.
But then, after 2023 is over, Morrissey Central will post its annual list of beloved deceased ("SING ME TO SLEEP"). And there at the end, after a long scroll of poorly formatted celebrity photos, will be a photo of you in bed—ashen, shriveled, bundled up in sweaters and scarves, looking up in awe at: Morrissey, who is seated on your bed, his hands wrapped compassionately around yours, and gazing down at you in great sorrow. Caption: "Sharon, whom the genderless angels loved."