Sunday.

0523. I wake up, stare at the oven clock. Go back to chomping demons in my sleep.

0911. White coffee, and one of those eggy pastry things they sell up the road. My bedmate spills crumbs on one of those obscene “culture” magazines you only buy (and never read) when you’re at the airport.

1146. Two pickles and an olive.

1401. Peanut butter and toast. I like the way the knife crushes the bread with such dumb force.

1504. Cream of mushroom soup, that powdered stuff. I make the mistake of reading the label, but drink it anyway, getting high on the hazy mix of salt and thickeners.

2012. Beans, buckwheat and broccoli. The moisture forms a brown sludge in the bowl. It goes down the sink.

2110. Ice cream and chocolate flavoured topping. I lie in bed and wonder why Freud thought every boy was Oedipus.

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