Probably I should be washing. My body seems to want to remove as much of itself as possible, so I can wake up next week, half a person, fit into my old jeans, and maybe have a bite to eat. Essays don’t do themselves, they fill my half-closed eyes with blank screens.
Oscar calls but I do not answer. I pretend, to myself, that I am sleeping. My stomach pummels itself. But essays do not write themselves.
I make a niche in my balled first by arching my thumb and my pointing finger. Only two weeks left of this now. I sl
ide the pen into the niche. The cold pen. And I stare at the page and do not write.
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