Fickle, fickle Dawn. You’re early today.

A clenched jaw: unconscious strain, unnoticed, a habit born of stubbornness. Detected, a deliberate effort made to loosen it, but slowly, slowly, it creeps back into the fashion of the moment, for the mind has yet to cease its frenetic dancing between topics fluid and slippery, and it will not be denied. Ever willful.

Louder is the silent protest of fingers made cold and pale by lessened circulation. A cocoon of icy cotton, layer piled upon layer. Not enough and yet nothing else will do.

Forty-two hours awake and counting. Skittering walls give me hope that my count will soon end.


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