--
January came and went with barely a puff in the stilted cold air, dissipating into vapor. The last time she wrote was the first day of 2025. She can hardly recount what happened in this last orbit around the sun. The days melt like Dali's clocks.
She thinks of Pavlov's dog on this early morning. The house is quiet, save the cats padding about in wait for the feeders to deliver second breakfast. Her day rises and sets like clockwork -- wake up, feed the cats, eat breakfast, complete the daily crossword, finish clinic notes and chart prep, shower, drive to work, work work work, drive home, exercise, dinner, sleep, rinse repeat. She has not opened Scrivener in months.
But in that early morning silence, the arc of arpeggios from the electric guitar slices through the shell of apathy. This sound is her bell, her stimulus. Guitar riffs she has collected for years in her mental composition book, Edge of Seventeen, Nuno Bettencourt, Juliette Valduriez, satellites of space junk orbiting aimlessly around a disinterested planet. For a brief moment, the lights come back on.
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