"What's it like, Simon?"
"Cystic Fibrosis. Living with that."
Simon's mouth twisted to the side a bit as he pondered this. "Well," he said at last, "my lungs are like roots: they give me air, but they keep me down. Even though I'm sick, they keep rattling on, they keep me alive, and the cost..." he gestured to his cannula, to his oxygen tank and his respirator, to his hospital bed and IV tubes, "the cost is my freedom. I'm trapped--just like the tree outside that window, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."
-The Things That Stay
art, writing (c) me