The P in Pnuemonia is Silent

Struggling to wake, struggling to breathe. I can only envision Grimm's dismal grip upon my throat. A clammy, icy touch, reminiscent of Winter's last stand. Bones against chalkboard, moisture perspiring against the hollow tubes that should represent my lungs. Instead they are pipes laden with poisons, sent to make the human contraption break down both physically and mentally. There is no release, no patience, in the time it takes to exhale. Only miserable clusters of oxygen tapering with the humidity of hydrogen, rattling against the pipes that connect to the rest of my form. Reminding me with each breath "I am only human", and yet I am made to break down. I hate the struggle. Knowing my lungs gape out like a fish, piddling itself against the rigid floor. Worse than a fish. I have to cough to remind myself of my limits. To remind myself I cannot escape this. Even if I were to lie down to rest, I find no comfort. Only knowing that I would drown all the faster because shallow lungs fill up with water quicker that way. What a miserable wretch I feel! Torn between exhaustion and a fight for survival. Pathetic. The cure for this is.....time.