That’s what I’m thinking as I make my coffee. Three ice cubes. Almond milk. Two scoops of coffee. Hot water. Sprinkle of sugar. Stir.
The flowers on my linen are faded from too many wash cycles. Once vibrant, with swirls of fuchsia and gray, the colors are now dull and almost unrecognizable.
Almost like me.
My beautiful butterfly is sleeping soundly, a luxury three-hour nap compared to the two-hour shifts I managed last night. Or didn’t manage.
My eyes struggle to stay open; it’s like I drink coffee merely for taste.
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