The beast with two backs looms on the horizon. ‘It’ll be a full moon,’ she says. ‘People always go a little crazy.’ I stroke her hair, staring at a fixed point in space. People are always a little crazy, I tell her. The moon may shift tides but social mores make waves. She leans into me, tilts her head, exposes her neck, looks through me. ‘You aren’t as clever as you think,’ she says. I know, I should give myself more credit. ‘At least you’re funny.’ I laugh and she doesn’t. We kiss, waiting for the sun to set.
I feel so fucking crazy that I worry it seeps out of my skin. People stare at me a lot, I think, or glance into my vicinity with a specific casualness that feels broadsword worse by way of bamboo splintering, and I worry that my insanity is showing. Did I wipe it off? Tuck it in? Brick it up? Excrete a social sin? But really, I know nobody is looking. If they ever do, it’ll be from an angle I forgot to vet, because the quantum law of averages is buttered side down and I always end up toast.
Lately, things are wrong in a way they never used to be. My mouth tastes like ash and my fingers hurt. I’m tired all the time in a way that doesn’t make me want to sleep. Time is my enemy and it works in seditious ways. I don’t relate to my life anymore, it’s always something described to me on other people’s terms. Events get all mixed up like colour swatches in a paint store explosion. I worry that I’m not crazy enough for any of this, but Sasha says we’re all crazy, that we need it to survive.