A race to the finish line, where they hand me my plastic cup and my number, and I wait to die by the mashed potatoes. Every checkup is a death sentence before I’ve ever seen London in the flesh.
Today, I sat in front of blinking screens drowning in Google analytics and SEO talk. So over my head, overwhelmed by the human complications we invent to better our lives, just like my dreams, the old ones where I thought I still had a job in two different places from a dead resume — back when we still felt the ink of the print in our hands.
I’m running out of time.
The times I thought I was better. I am just an old woman with two bad knees locked in the old ways, who forgot to run. Where would I go? My car’s in the shop.
(Please be okay.)