+300 words elsewhere.

Two hundred words are easy when you can say things like how today, eating this french dip that tasted remarkable, that tasted like the first time I’d eaten such a sandwich and not all the salty, salty iterations that have followed after, you felt really okay.  Even mostly, mouth-wise.  That the panic and breathlessness that circled around you never quite took hold and you did get home safe.

Two hundred words is easy when you’ve embarked on a secret project.  A small project, you hope, a form of distraction you are well aware that you need when all the other forms are running thin and watery and you’ve knocked the cup of them to the ground anyway.  Two hundred words can just appear on the page when you’re thinking about kindness and connection and the sorts of social interactions and lubricants that you can run your mouth off about for years.

Two hundred words is cake when you’ve got your wits back, or at least the one is within reach, and you don’t mind so wildly that that a door’s been shut to you.  Because you can bash open a window with your strong fists and you can make a day new when the last one rusts out.

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