Ten.One Thousand, Two Hundred & Eighty
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“I don’t care.” “I knew you would say that because you’re French.” I want to go back to the dream.
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Fire in the throat. Hot water and lemon and honey. Again. How much work can I do from bed today? When was the last time I was sick?
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Waiting for sunrise.
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Thirty minutes into my hour of writing, and I’m still reading through old notes. That counts, right?
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Can I go back to the dream?
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I decide to stick to the desk and make my way through the to-do list. That’s the best thing to do. I won’t be able to rest anyway.
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“We don’t have a QR scanner.” I am honestly not surprised.
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But can I go back to the dream?
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“Black Twitter brought the laughs, but today I wonder about our PTSD from constantly dealing with people living in alternate realities.”
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Don’t want to.
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But the dream.
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Ready for summer and hammock and sunning on the front porch and dresses and being barefoot and growing things and drinking nothing but rosé and champagne and sauvignon blanc.