When you’re trying to appear casual hoping no one will notice as you poke around in your memory for the last place you saw your boxcutter just in case and when blaring all day in the brain containing said memory is what can only be described as assault rock a song called eulogy to be precise and when the head containing said brain is throbbing and the body attached to said head burdens more than bears you to the point where you picture yourself peeling open your own chest the way Clark Kent does his shirt and stepping out of your body all fresh and new and strong and you’re not on drugs then you probably should be. When afternoon of a faun is playing the next day you know you somehow leaped the chasm in your sleep which doesn’t mean it won’t reappear any moment now like it does. Anyway, no recollection of the boxcutter.


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