Maybe
I should have waited until I got home. Ten minutes of driving past one suburban
development after another would bring me there; two songs on the radio, three,
tops. Ten more minutes of being like this and I could take care of myself.
It
would never last, though. It never did.
So:
this prison. It wasn’t so much a prison as a cage within a cage, the Russian nesting
dolls of the present moment. I was in the belly of the beast, nestled up
against its chest cavity; I was where things intersected, where it all went
down. In a way, the shelter was pregnant with me.
“Well,”
I muttered, standing there in that doorway, unable to make myself go any
further into this place, “it doesn’t get any easier from here.”
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