“I should be sitting on the other side facing the sunset,” she says of her seat on the stone barrier marking out the plot of M. Rooney. The air smells uncertainly of food –potatoes not quite to their destination of french fried or baked?– and grass, fetid with days of snidely ratcheting humidity. The earth seems to be sweaty and a little sour with it.

Shoegazing. My angular discontent of yesterday has Dali-ed into a treacherous landscape of fatigue sinkholes. One second thoughts are stamped out with Swiss clock precision…The next…

…is five minutes later. Consciousness returns exactly the way it does in the movies, focus sharpening lazily on the near object. I’ve been on vacation, outside of myself, relieved of everything overwhelming for a little while; while my retina receives reflected light from my cuticles that my brain doesn’t bother to register.

It is acceptable at times to run from the burdens, but I fail time and time again at screaming out, warning the others that I will soon fall silent under a muffling blanket of jumbled promises and a paralyzing first-things-first dogma. Because I promised myself, but that first thing has only just begun.


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