1.23

Your feet are sending a strange ache up both legs, a pulsating pain that stresses the ‘both.’ 

When the train almost fell off its tracks, the tilt lifted your entire body, smashing your head’s back against the window pane in perfect synchronicity with those of a dozen others (you could swear that you heard the clonk, deeply satisfied, like an orchestra musician), then dropped you all back onto the benches. Only the benches had moved, too, and in some non-Euclidian reality, as it were, shaped by odd angles and dented lines. Your feet hit the floor, but your ass missed the seat, and though a reflex in your legs kept you from falling altogether–preventing much more serious harm, possibly–that reflex came at the cost of…whatever this is, you are thinking. Something permanent or temporary? A pulsating ‘both, both, both, both,’ which, you fear, will not be very tolerant of swinging things, like walking.

You are standing there, still fighting for balance as aftershocks continue to shake the platform, being afraid that never again will you be able to walk. 

Or it might just be the head, you try to think. But cannot.

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