Today I picked a moist dandelion, and drew a gusty wind into my lungs. I stopped outside of work, and exhaled, pulling out its tiny hairs and thin gray fibers, leaving my jacket splattered with petal carnage.
Two hours later, I'm fingering my Día de los Muertos ring and nervously gnawing at my chipped red nail polish. I'm wondering and pondering and pacing inside of my organs. My heart is clanking against my chest like the floorboards of The Tell Tale Heart and the wrinkles in my palms flood with hemp-scented sweat.
I'm anxious. Anxious about life, for fucking once.
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