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In the morning, even before I woke up, my chains were freedom. I was paralyzed in a casserole of unconsciousness. My coffee turned to grounds, my face was bloated and angry, everyone around me was mean, and I wanted to go to work. All day the rain was building, growing in the sky like rye on a steppe. When it was harvest time I wished for Noah, I wanted water entering my back door, an unfamiliar panic as runlets seeped into my kitchen. A puddle grew, stretching, but not close enough. For consolation, I smelled the rain. I wanted to strip naked but knew I would only have to dress again. I ate a too-ripe peach and thought of what I’d wished for, considered beginning a number of new books, trying four pages from each and amassing a pile on my bed, leaning against a husband pillow, listening to music like a boy, congratulating myself on what I could do. A void opened inside me; I sought a constraint. I thought of the man I’d met earlier, his nicotine-stained teeth, baggy eyes like raisins, selling a painting that was not his own on the cafe’s corner. He invited me to a party and I considered attending, not to have fun, but to see how badly I fit in amongst people who ate weekly dinners together and shared a bathroom with more than three others. Live music, cheap beer that’s given to me, granular titties, I eschewed all of it. Better to wonder about Bosons and philosophical maths. Better to have only myself as my restriction.
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