Monotone.

A month and two weeks since being on meds. Forty-four days since the oil-starved engine that represents my spirit finally broke down. A lot of smoke. An abundance of tears.

Something I forgot about hides behind my permanently open bathroom door in my closet nook.

Last year, time seemed to travel faster than light. A week was a day, a month a week. Now, in this new year, the past month felt like generations. The first week of January is a waft of smoke; as I grab onto the memory, my fingers float like it was never there.