It’s been one of those nights. No, give her a day, too. Good, long, but at the end of it all she’s insomniac and maybe a little bit wretched, more correctly, wrenched. A lot like the awkward aftermath of a fat girl joke only the girl in question is sobbing mightily in a nearby corner. She wonders if she’s getting somewhere, wonders how the drunk people in the next room really feel about…anything, really, only it’s as if they’re playing a game of irrelevancies in their dance away from the centers of themselves, this spiral (out to) petit mort, to death of self. Unsure. But she suspects that what one person shares reveals just as much as what that person takes. We are how we give is what she thinks before she drifts, settles, and sleeps.