Candid Corvid Productions

Maybe if she got some draino?

She still could not find her pass to sleep.

Having cycled the bedroom’s air, she turned off the fan in hopes that it would reduce the toxic gas infiltration, so that she could close the door to the rest of the house’s overstim.

Opening her bedroom door to the rest of the house’s smells that were foreign to her standard of normalcy at least changed the air composition – though greatly distracting to her heightened insomniac sensitivities.

She knew that her muscles’ new pain was due to some version of this.

She couldn’t even open a window for fresh air due to others’ fireplace emissions.

She could smell that the sewage line was having issues, as the smell had permeated her bedroom for the last week – but she could not ask the landlord to attend to it.

How can one tell if the hull of a ship’s integrity is solid for sailing and sea worthy?

In a town once called “home,” a woman who had helped wreck another’s home let herself decline, became homeless, and slept in public drunk – and even showed up to the other woman’s place of work for services – constantly shoving into the face of the  woman that she had injured how little harming another family’s stability had meant to her by her phases of self absorption.

A piece of chocolate fell on her leg.

Schloomping one’s essential being out of one sticky situation, to arrive into next moments of pause – quivering and taking stock.

A long day.