High Time

It’s like the blurred vignette on a doctored photograph. It’s like a doubled-sided headache without the ache, just an overwhelming sense of disconnect. Yet connections are made nonetheless. Answers to secrets of the universe reverberate in your veins, jumpstarting your brain, but damn! It’s like your body is running on empty.

By the way, the gas light came on and I need the car tomorrow. Here’s a twenty. Oh, and can you pick up like five of those fully-loaded burritos from that place up the street? Extra onions. Grab a bunch of those little packets of hot sauce too. Thanks.

like stale bread
and morning breath
the taste of a sneeze

Elizabeth Alford

High Time

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