I rip apart willow tree limbs with bare hands on an uncommonly clear weekday. I study an infestation of pock-marks twenty feet high, scorched and ashen. I wonder if I'll look the same, years from now.
Across the county, another woman laments her own stupidity. She births a blonde doppelganger just outside my periphery, to shop for overpriced shoes amidst a sea of faceless bodies. I try to erase her retinal burn outline with cologne, artificial tea, and a companion I forget is walking beside me.

7:55 p.m. - 2016-04-07