Gravity is misbehaving. The rooms in the apartment are rearranged. Reality ticks detectably and yet life feels like a dream. It’s not a nightmare. It’s not settling. It is transit. You can sense where it’s going, but the way is ambiguous. Some moments have the fuzzy intensity of holding your breath too long. Sitting down seems natural, but the ground falls away. The floor feels as foreign as the open air. What will happen from here? The canvas is blank but shaped like where you’ve been so far. Where are the paints?

This is the moment of your fatal error. You can feel it happening. Your hand is in the water. The water feels natural but you realize that something is wrong. It’s very wrong. You can feel the itch against your bones. Like two sheets of coarse paper shifting back and forth and the fizzing of overly carbonated soda under your tendons. The water is scalding. The switch flips. There is nothing you can do now. You can pull your scorched skin out. You can leave it until the water turns tepid and the burnt skin is equal parts red and wrinkled. Your face is soiled with yolk and grime and shame. If everyone is looking, let them. This moment is pure and golden and yours. It is your failure to relive a hundred times over every next mistake. Lay back into it. The bed sheets are cool. The pillow case is cool where your tears soaked in. Roll in it. Wait until the wounds healed enough to hide.