My chair is too low for my desk, but I don’t want to replace it. Big enough for me, canvas and yellow and covered by a fraying quilt, it’s a womb, my incubator.
When my sister was young, she used to have these fits in which she’d put her battered knees to her chest, hiding in the fetal position. I didn’t think much of it then, but I wonder now what she was thinking, a seven-year-old secluded in the dark humidity of her own breath and skin while the world lumbered around her.
I wonder if it’s anything like I’m feeling now, reclined in my little chair, hidden from the outside by my fortress of a desk and the folds of my childhood. I wonder if it’s like the first drag of a cigarette when everything disappears behind a cloud of smoke. The third beer on an empty stomach. A…
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