Is it a sickness, I wonder?

Succulent soaking up the morning sun; is it a sickness I wonder, that turns the sad thing brown, or a consequence of my thumb? An old voice coming through on tape floats around the apartment as brisk winds and morning dew tap at the windows, rap on the door. Filling myself up with life’s finest elixirs, goosebumps rising and falling with each new cadence, eyes a swollen mess with the rise of morning; is it a sickness, I wonder, that meets me sadly with fatigue, or a product of some other thing gone wrong in my little life?