An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times, as measured in the surrounding world, does not equal the duration of the journey it undergoes. In this place, the soft grey shawl and my knitting project are on my Anthropologie quilted bed.
After I died and forgot who I was, people kept telling me I was an alcoholic. I couldn’t remember anything else about who I was, and I literally prayed every day that I would die, so drinking quickly became an innate part of what was left of whatever I’d been.
Sometimes—I’m having a memory of one of our living rooms and then I realize it’s just my old living room, in the house I grew up in, in Cupertino.
You have bleach, a box of razor blades you bought twenty years ago, at Flax, and a very sharp chef’s knife. But the knife was a birthday gift so it seems disrespectful to use it to slit your wrists. Plus, wrist slitting seems like an acute challenge and you’ve never been good with details.
Like a lot of people, I wake up every morning. I’m sure this is true because I’m alive. Again. I’m in a living room, on a sofa. Staring at my hands.
Every day, exponentially expanding, are my thoughts. I then forget them.