I'm just sitting here, eating my Ritz crackers, wondering if the salt will make me fat, because I just don't need one more thing tacked to the growing list on my forehead of never-ending stress demands. And I wonder if I take the tack out, if I will bleed to death, or if I will even care, knowing that I will die without anyone taking my life but me.
I bite the cracker so that it makes the shape of a crescent moon in my hand. What a concept. I'm holding the moon in my hand. What a day.
I lick my fingers clean of the hazardous salt, and I look out the window. I am not suprised to see you lurking there, watching me with intent eyes.
I grab another cracker from the box wondering if you have enough balance to avoid my staring eyes; wondering if I have enough courage to notice you at all.