part three.

dear wheat, dear syrup, dear gastric acid,

The following information is highly classified because it may or may not be dangerous. Review it at your own risk. Stay tuned next for the crack of ice shattering over a frozen river. 

Act One 

You always set your alarm for an extra hour in the morning. You do not need this much time to get ready. You stand in the bathroom, toothbrush loosely held between your teeth, eyelids still clinging to sleep, grey, fluffy slippers on your feet. You stare at the mirror, and the mirror stares back. You stand here for a long time. This is what the hour is for. Your pulse slows to molasses proportions, a turtle valiantly racing against the rabbit of time. You are not sure what it means to be human. You tell yourself that this is okay, that this confusion is normal, that your mirror does not have a problem with this. Your breath fogs the glass and you shuffle down the hall.

You put two slices of bread into the toaster, and walk away. Faith is leaving the bread unattended, belief is knowing it will come out as toast. You dress yourself in slow motion, observing the metamorphosis of your body as it is covered. It is a reverse cycle, from butterfly back to cocoon. You are always falling down a step, always unraveling. Your toast pops out of the toaster in the kitchen, the metal grilles disparately clicking. It tastes like ash in your mouth as the slow initial stages of digestion are mechanically processed by your teeth and saliva. The toast slides down your throat as ten heavy stones. If you were to wade into a river, you would be dragged down to the bottom. Imaginary currents pull at your heels but you do not succumb to their pressure. This happens daily, this is routine, this is habit.

parts one and two of this story can be found in the website archive.