The pulsating earthquake in my head finally stopped, I vaguely remember the sixth glass of red wine tasting like sawdust. Yesterday is still a blur, mother left in the morning and hasn't come back yet. I guess she's mad at me for quoting Paranoid Android at the dinner party on New Year's but seriously, I can't listen to someone starting the sentence "as Voltaire once said..." without throwing up in my mouth.
"I know it's not a real quote" mother says to me in the cab on our way back home, "but these people are very sensitive about monarchy". I pretend like I'm listening as we head out on Park but in my mind I'm already asleep in my bed. Mother grabs my hand firmly, her thin leather gloves feel like rice paper. "You have such strange opinions" she says, "and who the hell is this Thom Yorke person anyway?"