A Text
You wake. It's dark, so very dark. You want to gently slide back into sleep. But your bladder has noticed your quote unquote waking and demands your attention. You force your eyelids up, force yours to focus. 3:42. ugh. You climb out of bed in a most ungainly and clumsy manner. You were in the deepest depths of sleep just seconds ago, dreaming about . . . You can't quite get it even tho your brain still feels more asleep than awake.
You stumble through the house. OW! Normally you traverse this path easily in the dark (thanks to your whiny bladder) but tonight you stub your big toe on an ottoman. Oh, right, you had to push it back a few inches to set up the craft table interfering with your usual way.
Your toe throbs and is already bruising when you stumble back through the living room.
This text from your dear sciencey friend, Kitsune, also known as Dr. Madd the Vexed Scientist, was sent just minutes ago.
You call Madd, chuckling over her typo as her line rings and rings
Go to p. ZZ
You text Madd because who calls these days?
Go to p. YY
You don't look at your phone -- falling asleep within seconds of getting back in bed -- and when you do see it in the morning you're already running late for work so you plan to call her at lunch but then forget
Go to p. XX
So what do you think? Gripping start? A sense of urgency (bladder, and also the emergency text)? Obviously I'll fill in actual page numbers once everything is format and ready to print. There's really no point until then.
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