Letter from Inside an Egg

You wake up here every day. It has become so familiar that you don’t see it. You don’t see the stains on the floor, the crinkling of the water in the dog bowl when you tap it with your big purple toe, the way that the mould around the ceiling corners merges with the shadows when the sun sinks. You don’t notice the rank stench of cabbage, laced with a lingering hint of uric acid, that is real enough that at first you could feel it on your lips like vinegar.

You wake up here every day without really waking up. Today is different. Today you are awake. You can see, like really see. Your…