Lying. Still. There’s someone at the door. You freeze. You hold your breath. He goes away. You’re free to breathe again. Somewhere in your brain there’s a storm brewing, synapses renewing, flashing lights, all so bright. You breathe heavily through your mouth. Your lips are dry, no time to die. You keep on fighting a battle underneath your eyelids, your pupils dilating, sweat on your forehead. You’re shaking. You feel it creeping underneath your skin. A smoke bomb dropped in your mind, obfuscating everything. You’re lying still. The phone rings. Once. Twice. You survive. Managing your lucid moments, freezing up when they are gone. Insipid. Inaudible. Impalpable. Odorless. Invisible. “Air your shoes out…” Critical masses amassing in your skull. Thoughts weigh heavily. “Memory be gone!” Stumble upon the unanswerable, the sweat dripping onto your nose. You’re still shaking. Existential dread. Frequencies adjusting, waves contracting, all fuzzy, all noise. You inherited a world you didn’t ask for. It’s too cold. You’re freezing. So much demanded from you. So little capacity. The mechanics are failing. It starts by your liver. You keep sweating. You survive. “Wake up! Please wake up!” Someone needs your help. They are begging you. “It’s an emergency!”.  Indelicate inquiries into delicate subjects. On the table: a bunch of projects. Caught in stasis, you lie there still. You’re agitated, your body twitches until it’s still.

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