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foggy room

First responders broke into secret motel and found the apartment packed with a very thick fog. I was unconscious and flat on my back in the carpet. I was gurneyed into an ambulance and taken to a hospital up the hill.

I later learned that government men, wearing haz-mat suits, searched my apartment and seized my notebooks.

Someone also confiscated all the spoons.

I was much better the next morning. A nurse, wearing a surgical mask, wheeled me out onto a patio overlooking the city. It was a sunny morning but there was a chill in the air. I figured it must be Sunday, with all the church bells across the city making a big goddamn noise. The nurse, for some reason, was careful to remain on the edge of my peripheral vision. I felt her rubber fingers gently rubbing my shoulders. "It'll be time for your lunch pretty soon," she said. "Isn't it funny the way the days seem to pass so quickly?"

"That's because it's windy out here," I said. "Wind speeds the sun across the sky."

She said nothing further. I wasn't sure if she was ignoring my comment or had failed to hear it. I often forget to breathe light into my thoughts and make them audible. Maybe the wind scattered my words before they could reach her ears. Or maybe she was ignoring my comment. There are some things that not even nurses understand.

I abandoned the idea of trying to communicate with her. Fantasy is often a better companion than most people we place in fantasy. I imagined myself alone with the nurse in a foggy room, lifting up her skirt and working my mouth up her thighs, experimental narcotics broadcasting in my bloodstream.

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