Some days I wake up a little depressed, a little anxious, maybe, for no readily discernible reason. Flesh feels a little less dense and I can't seem to find my way into reality as quickly as I usually do.
A woman nearly runs me down on the train platform, scratching my arm with her nails as I try to get out of her way.
A bird that has somehow made its way down into the tunnels beneath Union Square flies straight at my head, but no one else seems to notice as I duck to get out of the way.
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