In A World On Fire

Against resisting the seismic exhaustion longer, I curled up in the fetal position, when Dad’s car whizzed along the expressway towards home at nine o’clock that night, as offending rays of red, orange, and green, illuminated by the streetlights and traffic lights, danced a reel behind my closed eyelids.

“Our daughter, my dear, is most spent,” Mum noted, alongside the less than sedative rendition of Titanium which had pulsated through the stereo with more than usual intensity, as must have rendered her laconic observation faint and muffled.

Had I the zing, I would have been very servile; but being knackered from holding three jobs simultaneously, I had no wish of nodding my head or talking of my concurrence with deliberate vehemence, like Catherine and Lydia Bennet might a ball. My diminutive attention was quite engaged, ergo, in cogitating about unruffled waters of the oceans, large vessels, serene tunes crooning above our languorous heads, and the imperturbable ambles along the parquet decks.

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