I Don’t Know What This Is, Part 2

One night I’ll wake up to find an apocalyptic movie scene being projected onto the bedroom ceiling. Suburban ceilings have the light-colored, canvassy quality that’s needed to accomplish this. I’ll note this fact, and the accuracy of the projector’s keystone adjustments in how the image’s corners neatly fill parallel the ceiling corners. The cinematic hell actually playing will pass my notice, because I don’t have the empathetic capacity to take in all the fictional destruction. I can’t ingest the constant dopamine hits from every sentient fold of molecule that brushes up against me and remain in a sane state. The end of the world in general wouldn’t be so bad—the end of my world is the problem.

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