Caffeine, intimacy withdrawal, that familiar-ish dissociative state where I can’t recognize myself in the mirror of the café restroom.
Ego death, or ego overdose?
Maybe just jittery eye muscles, unable to focus under fluorescent duress.
Spent the afternoon folding emails into corny origami animals for faraway loved ones, while tiptoeing through the slender mechanics of dispersed family trauma in the book I’m reading.
I pretend not to wait for responses but my phone ain’t buying it, chuckling at me like a wily karate master:
“Flash floods no longer an imminent threat to the New Orleans area. Reply YES to confirm.”
All of 100 