Losing Mitt makes me feel like there’s a white balloon inflated in my head, looming over my thoughts, just out of reach. All the space it takes up makes my brain operate at a reptilian level for now. If I look right at it, I can grab and squeeze the balloon, and it gives resistance and screeches and squeals and I hate doing it, and maybe with enough disturbing and prodding and understanding its texture and what was written on its surface in ascending spirals— reading that and really committing it to memory— maybe I can get it to pop.

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