Mangy Dog

Here are some things that are happening today:

Someone—or something—is screaming on my floor. Not, like, my floor-floor; not inside my flat. The screaming is outside, but it’s definitely on this level. It’s thin and unearthly, like a creaky door, but loud. I’m not sure it’s…human. Whatever it is, it’s annoying.

I think I’ve killed my myrtle. It’s all dry and brittle, and last time I touched it, its leaves all dropped off. Is it too late to water it back to life?

I’m drifting again, lost between books. I’ve just finished a series, and I’m waiting for my next. This job, this office…it’s like, you know those restaurants where you get sushi on a conveyor belt? This is like that, but in hell. You wait and you wait, and the conveyor stays empty, but you can hear them in the kitchen, chop-chop-chop. You smell wonderful things, soy sauce and cooking oil, ginger and the sea. Any moment now, any m-o-m-e-n-t…and it comes, and you bolt it down, and it’s bad. You choke on a fishbone. You lick fake wasabi. You think about leaving, but they’re chopping again. You wait and you wait, and the conveyor stays empty, but you can hear them in the kitchen….

Last night, I dreamt a dog got in the shower with me, a dog with terminal mange. It wouldn’t move till I washed it. Does that count as a nightmare?

Not much else is happening today. There’s still the plague—I hear Boris Johnson has it now—but in here, life is quiet.

I want….

(Ever get that feeling where you want something, but you can’t decide what?)

I want…eight soda crackers and a cup of cabbage soup.

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