10. Tired
He'll save the Indian food for later
and so this week my Sunday night won't smell like curry. He says
he'll just share the mushrooms with me – because it's already fifty
o'clock. It sure is. Every bit of me is tired and every hour of the
last few days is sitting heavily between my shoulder blades and
rubbing against my lower eyelids. It's good that lungs and hearts and
livers keep on working even when the words get stuck in lumps of
balled up tired and thoughts all start to sound like the gibberish of
dream declarations.
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