in touch

That’s what happens when you binge on books and then run on four hours of sleep. Close the door to the office to dampen the sounds of passersby. Roll my sweater into a ball and use my coat as a blanket. I press the small of my back into the concrete floor. It’s cold.

Light headed. Imagining myself a plant. The world is a cracked fading photograph. Fissures in the world where one could just spread your fingers and dig in. Digits become grasping roots and if I just close my eyes and concentrate, I could feel.


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