Sometimes, I awake in the middle of the night, perfectly alert, with an itch to be elsewhere. My skin curls against my muscles, my muscles hug closer to my bones, and the marrow within my bones moves slightly, a spider inching to the right, then to the left. Not too much, but enough. Soon after, I fall back to sleep and forget the whole thing. The next day, or the next week maybe, I see an ant moving from grass to pavement, or a fly in my house, and I can’t help but think about how far they must have traveled to reach such an alien terrain. Think of how new the tar of my driveway must to be that ant, as odd and misplaced as I would be if I ended in someplace so cloaked in snow that I was blinded. I’ve never seen snow, never felt the cold slip to warm on my hand, or watched the vast whiteness oppose the utter blackness of my pupils.
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