I can’t get up.  Maybe in a little while.

I’ve been saying that all day.

Hungry skin: it’s the place inside you where you would do anything, give anything, be anything, to have someone want to touch you.  Just for a minute.

Cold heart: it’s very Heinlein.  Humans laugh when it hurts too much to cry.  This is the place past that, the absolute zero of no movement, of mistrusting one’s own emotions and reactions so deeply that no response is possible.

It’s a helpless place, a needy place, a wanting place, an unattractive place.  It is out through the pass, walking the shores and picking up shiny things, hoping they’ll show you the way, not caring if they make you stronger or stranger, because any change at all might help.

Hungry skin, cold heart.  I’ll get up, in just a minute.  There’ll be a reason, and I’ll find a way.  Any minute now.

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