Suicidal depression.
Working backwards through the dream to the moment I lost consciousness.
Trying to compose the thoughts and feelings into a New York Times bestseller book's opening paragraph.
Spiralling blackness, then small figurines pressing against my face and solidifying impressions as my body unfolds from its fetal position.
Crawling backwards like a wounded animal through the shallow backwash of discarded anniversary gifts and a sandy market bazaar.
Two dollars to join the buskers' band.
Earlier remembering how Tim had brandished the absurdly giant steel shuriken. Another middle school boy grabbed it. In the struggle it ended embedded in a girl's upper back, missing her spine by an inch, and grazing her shoulder blade. She was mostly unharmed (physically) but I still had to retell the story to her mother.
When I did, she suffered a heart attack.
