There was a shadow amoeba in my hospital room the size of an adult hand, and I watched it make its rounds as it crawled up and down the wall for 17 minutes straight. Blinking sparingly, I followed its foreboding gestures so that I wouldn't miss its intentions.

I was transfixed with its disciplined oscillations and wavering habits. It would flicker assertively at times, grow faint, disappear for split seconds, then abruptly emerge as its blacker denser shadow reincarnate–all while adhering to its committed three foot linear path on the wall facing me.

It was unsettling, yet poetic in its deliberateness. I could've watched it perform its routine all night, but my nurse interrupted my curious voyeurism so that she could replace my chemo bag, marking the commencement of the new day at 1:46 am.

Shadow friend gone, my attention was redirected toward the fresh toxicity inserted into my central line, serving as a sadistic reminder of the perdition that awaited my diminishing body. As I laid there, tormenting for any kind of sleep spurt, I could hear the sinister laughter of the abdominal and bone pains, nausea, and vomiting in the prelude of the approaching day.