I’m on tribunal in front of people who are not my peers. I’m spinning out of control. My sleep schedule is erratic. You can’t have it both ways, says Ulric, asking me if what my channel runs now can still be called currentivism.

Get out of my way, I tell Gary, shoving him back into his apartment.

She is paranoid about pressing into the soft spots of the baby’s skull.

I get up and walk out. I’m a prisoner, but I am free. The baby mistakes me for Jesus, whom she visits with in every dream. Her gas must be expelled.

I can’t stop thinking about how I was in her nightmare. It’s only natural, but that’s why it was so nice for it not to have been happening. This harkens back to a time when I was the monster on acid. This baby is drawing a wedge between us. This really is some bad coffee.

She had told me that I was being such a good father earlier, but I never want to hold the baby. Probably because I don’t want to pike her soft spot or drop her on the floor, but that’s still a lot of responsibility for her to carry alone on her shoulders. This is supposed to be a team effort.

You want to stay up through the night? Well, two can play at that game, sweetheart. Where do you think you even got it from? I am the nightmare king. If you come crying for me in the night, you will find me.

Comes the point where, while I’m already aware that this is possible, I am presented with the door, and I walk out, erasing access to the room. I tell myself it’s fine, and I’ll say it to you now here as well. I’m at the point where I no longer long for people. I’m beginning to enjoy the coffee. The acerbic liquid, making its way through my body. It’s corroding my life. Start it up again.  We’ve got work to do. The baby is gassy. My appointment is at 4pm today.

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Posted in Lit

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