eggs

butter

listening to shoegaze over laptop speakers at 1am after a few drinks and realizing how cripplingly alone you are in the universe for a split second before the feeling fades and you’re left with the faint afterimage of it burned into your consciousness like closing your eyes after staring at the sun

milk

driving in rain so light that the lowest wiper setting is too frequent and everything is coated in a fine mist and you see how long you can go without clearing it off the windshield

looking up at a city skyline and wondering what would happen if your current field of view was projected backwards through time to the mind of a caveman

Chips Ahoy (not the store brand stuff, they don’t get the texture right)

trying to remember the sound of their voice and the smell of their shampoo and the way they laughed and not being able to and not quite crying but coming close enough to make your friends ask what’s wrong, you don’t look so good, to which you reply that you’ve just been tired lately

orange juice

waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat for no particular reason with the lingering taste of a nightmare hovering over everything

contemplating suicide in the abstract instead of the concrete, much like how astronomers contemplate the heat death of the universe