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The way the sky (allegedly) turns soupy green before a tornado, so, too, do I know the clearest sign of my own dark mood coming through.

I don’t know where it came from. It’s not a thought that I ever have in my conscious life. Somehow, in the running AM station that is my mind, the line comes when something isn’t right:

I hate everything. I hate everything. I hate everything. 

The last time I caught this sentence roiling through my head, I thought, But I don’t hate everything. There’s no way that I hate everything.

I chewed on this for a while. Then I realized — no, the problem is that right now, I do hate everything, including the things that I love and have borne me no ill will. And I stalk around the house, or rather, I stalk out of my studio for a little bit and then I stalk back into it, because no one needs to see me like that, especially those I love.

And today I went through these photographs. I took them on Saturday morning, when Chris was making breakfast. Homemade home fries, with red potatoes and fingerling potatoes and peppers. Eggs with orange yolks so sturdy they were a snap to flip without breaking. Bacon, which I can’t cook worth a fig and he does a perfect, crispy job with every time. That’s what he cooks: morning breakfasts.

It’s a lot, to hate everything.

It’s a lot, to love everything, and to keep a record of it. To string together the moments like beads on a fishing line.

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