Three days of peace? That's all I get before something finds me again? Only three days before a tree looks a certain way against a certain sky when the cicadas start chirping little drifts of dissociated garbage through my brain? Nice. And now I need to get into the kitchen and make a salad. No, it won't be ordinary. Well, technically it will, but not really. Not in my head. In my head it will not be a cucumber that I am chopping up to put in there. Close, but no cigar, you know? And no, those aren't radishes I'm slicing for it, either. The shape is similar, but they're not really radishes. Not in the macabre salad I will be tossing in my mind. Fucking bastard.