Everything from the end of the world to strangely paganistic rituals to the man of (quite literally) my dreams. Munficient dreamage the past week. Even to me, as I type this, the thought that this seems to happen often around the time of the full moon sounds positively looney, tritely new-agey. I’m not sure anymore about anything. Either everything is connected, influencing and influenced or this is all just a series of moments, blindly leading into the next without any rumination or portent.
Every morning, she woke up. After two snooze alarms, she’d drag herself to the bathroom, absently collecting the bath towels discarded on the bedroom floor from the previous morning. She’d shower, think about what to wear, shave her legs if needed, step out, wrap a towel on her head, a towel around her body, stare in the mirror for any developing pimples or stray brow hairs, put on cocoa-butter lotion, and walk back to her closet. Every morning. Breakfast was either an egg on two slices of toasted bread or a bowl of cereal. Every morning. If she cared enough, she’d already packed her lunch the night before, and if not, she scrambled to throw something edible together as she rushed off to work. Every morning. Driving to work, before opening the car door to race to the bus stop, she’d glance in the rear-view mirror to check her mascara and would catch the stare of her own big, dark eyes and shake her head. This was her life.
Until the next morning, when she never woke up. At least in our world.
