I keep looking out into the distance and looking directly back. CAPTCHA, survey Grammarly ad. New journal—Vincent, and six-peso pens. Noncommittally, I running start and jump off every cliff I see.

Inertia is hard to beat or bear. The light is cold but not heart-squeezing, not dark. It’s easy! Figure it out and soon. Get used to rotten eggs or buy fresher; God, anything but this vomit-strewn aisle.

No one else knows how to deal with me. I eye-contact and hope. I wait and see. I options open. I keep threatening people with mold gardens, bodies, scandal, blood on the blade—and serve instead an unmade bed, messes everyone can’t help but hate.