Gently, very gently: “It would be great if you could get me a new draft of the book by the end of August.” The ding of emails.
Carefully, very carefully: I build a fort. It’s imaginary but it keeps out the riff raff so I can concentrate.
Slowly, very slowly: things break down in the real world so an imaginary one can be (re)built.
Later, much later: I force myself to sleep by any means.
Early, too early: I look for the answers in my coffee. I don’t like going outside; I can’t bear to be looked at. “You could be a real pretty girl, if you tried.” I’m not trying right now. Not for you.
It will be over soon. I’ll look at the pages and won’t know how the words got there. Fugue state, I assume. My brain protecting me from the memory so I can do it again with other words.
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