by Darren Speegle

The clarity of the morning deteriorates to senselessness by noon, and then I cannot say it. Every word catches fire as it appears on the screen, chronicling a thrashing self-infliction and mutilating my eyes. Until, ritually, my head implodes. In sleep, that hour or two, they put my skull back together, delicately removing the fragments and shards from my brain. The rifts in the pulp will not heal, but the morning brings clarity again, slightly less than yesterday's and slightly more than tomorrow's.

It is twenty-nine minutes past ten now. Yesterday at this time it was twenty-eight minutes past ten.

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