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  • I woke this morning to find the city wrapped in a blanket of haze as thick as cotton balls. The weather outside these walls must be mirroring the weather inside my body too. Or the other way around. Either way, my brain is wooly today, my mood sombre and grey. The soundtrack to my day is the Cowboy Junkies: lazy rhythms whose dark beats drum their 'poor-mes' through the air.

    It's Sunday and the air is cold, wet. A ship circles the canal locks, surveying the waters for something lost or sinking. In the distance, a monolithic structure casts a delicate shadow much more flattering than its normally brutish shape; it's ghostliness is almost beautiful. It's hard to imagine lifting into the realms of beauty from where I am, in these depths of numb ramblings. The ship sputters it's small pattern on the surface of the canal saying, "nothing much to see, nothing much to do."

    Eleven years ago I was rushed to the hospital in a taxi (faster than an ambulance in New York City) and laid on a gurney. I was plugged in, pricked up, prodded and poked. I don't remember much about what happened except that I felt I was floating above my body the whole time I was inspected. When I came back to earth, through the hazy mist of whatever blanket had unexpectedly draped itself over me, I entered into many years of battling the cotton-ball-thick black moods that now follow me wherever I go.

    I woke this morning earlier than I wanted to, before he did. I looked out the window and the city was missing.
    Instead, a haze.
    A thick, thick haze.

    It's Sunday and the world is a putt-puttering below me. I'm up here, on a high floor looking down through glass. I'm looking for a clue, for something that might help me to understand what this weather portends. I can see my breath fog up the window if I get too close. I press the the whole weight of my body against the glass pane and wait to see if anything happens. The glass is cold. I know it's strong enough to hold me; I don't want some terrible ending. I just want to get close to the weather outside, to the mist, to see if by being close to it I will come to understand the weather inside. This is silly, of course. It doesn't work that way.

    Twenty-three years ago I felt my heart pounding like a racehorse chasing down a track. My palms went sweaty. My skin went pale. I was in science class, I remember, and nothing particularly important was happening. Suddenly, from nowhere, I felt this mist enter my veins and pound my heart to a pulp. I lay my head down and was carried to a nurse. I lay waiting for something to make sense. I was floating above my body looking down numbly wondering what I was, why I was. It wasn't very long before I was back in my body, wandering down the halls to my next class. It was just a moment, a blip, a skip of time that doesn't matter very much. It was a foreshadowing of future skips, but I didn't know that then.

    It's Sunday and I'm enveloped in mist.
    I'm floating.
    I'm counting.
    I'm hoping.
    I'm gone.
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