Around the ages of four to seven, whenever I took a nap during the afternoon, I would wake up shivering and confused, a drowned person without the drowning, head like a water tank riddled with bullets, heavy yet leaking. Yet there was a special delicateness to this disorientation, a thread of lucidity that held aloft the leaden panic. I thought that if I could just hold onto this thin string of sense through sleepy labyrinths, then I could get through the rest of the day and forgive myself.

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