She dreams of next week's arguments in Helvetica. Unclaimed nightmares dressed up in the unaccountable. Gunshot sighs double as smelling salts. A stock market ticker in the background scrolls through names of the mundane. She doesn't know how to decipher the gains and losses. Eventually, the numbers all blur together under the compress of pragmatic headaches.
On a scale of one to ten, she enjoys her pain somewhere in the neighborhood of rarely-to-never.
So much self-induced suffering.
9:19 p.m. - 2015-11-16
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