I'm sitting in the Italian restaurant in a gorgeous new outfit: a slitted, checkered skirt, a see-through flowy-sleeved blouse, black, with a sexy red bodysuit peeking out from underneath. I'm wearing heels, forgoing socks for the sake of the outfit. My left side is cramping. It could be an exercise stitch, or perhaps a menstrual cramp, or undigested food lodged—undetermined pain. Suddenly I am flying down a staircase, my skirt flapping behind me, I can't find my footing, it's a spiral. The restaurant is outside my eyes but my eyes, oh my eyes, are outside of me. I see my organs on each staircase landing; they're all red and enflamed and enraged. I'm engulfed in undetermined pain. I see flashes of bathroom tile, the bottom of an empty trash can, a gray fleece blanket wrapped around a feverish blob of hair and skin once again; all remnants left over from...

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