The seizures come regularly in the middle of the night. Sludge spasms start under the ribs and punch through my backside. A blonde marshmallow waif drifts in and out of my consciousness. I alternate between wistful sadness and regret, and resigned acceptance, with every slow and violent clenching inside my chest. The silence draws out long over the evening, and the months. I lack the willpower to truncate either. Or both. I lull myself to fitful sleep with apple cider vinegar, and time-bleached-blonde photographs.
4:52 p.m. - 2017-02-27
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