The morning came silent, gray, and damp as a funeral crepe. I woke up to my own heartbeat snapping me out of a restless, fragmentary dream where the black shadows from the painting came to life and moved behind the frosted glass, and the blue crack pulsed like an open vein.
My first thought is a bug. The second is Reynolds. The third is dinner. They lined up in a clear, inexorable sequence, like falling dominoes. Tonight, we had to take a step that might be impossible to back down from.
I got up and went to the window. The park was covered in a milky mist, through which only the vague outlines of trees could be seen. The world seemed blurry, undecorated. Like my life right now, all the outlines were blurred, just a blur of emotions: fear, rage, shame, and that strange, warm tightness in
