You finish your breakfast, and finish working on the beginnings of an electronic dream journal. You sit back and reflect on what Lora said, and how much it could have to do with your current situation.


. . .


Lora.


You were--

she was


you think


maybe



You heave a long, slow sigh. You don't know what you were anymore. She was your girlfriend, probably. That's what she said, and that's what you believed.

She was your girlfriend.

Most of the time.


Just not when it mattered.

You contemplate punting that box into the wall like a turtle shell, but decide that instead it's time to leave the house for a while--go buy some food that isn't 90% sodium and/or meat in quotation marks. You'd normally be averse to sunlight and, god forbid, interacting with other people but fuck it you just got through dying. It's time to live a little.

You give your clothes a quick smell test before throwing them back on and heading out your front door. You lock it on your way out because you have enough monsters in your house already, thanks.