I fear I’m losing my mind. Throughout the day, Hemingway narrated my moments, my thoughts.
The mug was ceramic and smooth and it felt heavy in my hands. I placed the cup to my lips and the coffee pulsed into my mouth. It tasted of hazelnut or vanilla nut or another nut. It doesn’t matter. I laced the coffee with cream and it was rich and sweet and for a moment, I forgot the bitter day.
Why? I have absolutely no idea.
God forbid that tomorrow David Foster Wallace narrates my day. I’ll be lost in footnotes before my bare feet hit the floor.