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Wednesday, May 2


It is hurting in the middle, in the sides, all the way to the back. But I am afraid to go to a doctor. The scenario will be terrible. Devastating. Sad. He will say "This is wrong, wrong, wrong." I will respond: "No, no, no. I am fine, fine, fine." Standing up. Shouting. "Not, not, not. You need help, help, help." We will be stuck in an inferential state of threes. Everything will be repeated thrice. It will follow the loop of time that will wind itself around us. Tying us to each other as I fall further and further into refusal. He will fall further and further into his medical past, stating cases of denial, of repression, of physical ailments derived from the mind. "You are unhealthy. You are unclean." I will toss things. I will squeeze my eyes shut and twirl in circles until the world starts moving with me. And then I will fall onto the floor and cry until the loop of time that has caught us within its ties will make us free. He will sit at my side and give me a pitying look. Awkwardly pat my back and say "It is just the stomach flu. It will be fine by tomorrow." And I will be free to leave.

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