Rainy Sunday washes the streets in waves of potential, you run laughing at the edges of Chinatown and think you'll make it another season, after all. He asks if it's all in your head and you don't know how to explain the parasite that coils itself around your brain and distorts everything you ever knew, puts its full weight on your eyelids and wraps your head in cotton, your chest in lead. You want it not to matter, you want to speak about it as history, as anecdotes, but the snake still circles you in murky waters when you wake.
When Monday arrives, there's rain in the clouds again but aren't they lighter? You meditate two inches from the spotlight and play make believe of sunshine on your cheeks. Put all your power in imagination.
Is that not what you said you wanted, anyways?
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