Best Worst Year: Episode 78 (Or, radiocontrast agent)

Sundog Blog

The light in your eyes is slow to warm–like vacuum tubes inside an old amplifier. It’s not a concussion. At least, it wasn’t a few days ago, but now they’re calling it post-concussion syndrome. You have been burrowing down through stratified layers of thought trying to find bedrock–stable. You find yourself places, not unlike being twenty-one on a Friday night in a college town full of drink specials and happy hours with busted clocks. There is a hyper-reality to it. Just being somewhere all of a sudden. How long has it been? Minutes? An hour. You have had three cups of coffee in the last hour and change–finished none of them–and now sit, going stone cold, in the kitchen, on the bathroom sink, and the dining room table. It’s Monday morning and all you can think about is getting a pizza. Your glasses are a transparent rushhour…

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