She's always struggled with writing, so it's with stunned pride that she sees her piece on the wall, winner of a weekly contest.
She hits replay on the music video (please don't let this get stuck in my head), and there it is again, the Vegas-style Egypt with a talking sphinx throne.
Stirrings of hope and love, late at night. I encourage these feelings with a pep talk, like using bellows for a fireplace.
It wouldn't take much for me to vomit. A sudden movement, maybe. I fold myself into bed on my side, knees to chest, and hope that sleep will ease the nausea.
As four of us play Monopoly, she sits apart, a few feet from the TV, to better shout at the pundits and politicians.
Floating on "Dreams" by The Cranberries in breaks between assignments.
Critical thinking, he assures me, is impossible. There's even a script for giving up on it. ("Other people are thoughtless and extreme, and I'm just reacting to them. They're making me do this. If they didn't, I wouldn't.")