I find that on these dull days, I haven’t a crumb under the kitchen table; I haven’t a word to describe the feeling on the tip of my tongue; I haven’t an overarc to give way to the desperation I feel. On these dull days, where the sun comes out to play only a moment; only a whisper, which my ears can hardly tolerate; only minutes my perilous body can bear. And on these dull days, I overread. If there is even such a thing.

I imagine Friday’s eyelids butterfly kissing the open blue sky in its early…