Bring up a subject purely to seem like the kind of person who brings it up. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

I was staring at this jar of buttons earlier. Just an ugly, chipped mason jar, half-full of plastic discs from clothes I haven’t worn since 2014. There’s a turquoise one with a missing shank that looks like it’s screaming. I should have thrown them out years ago. Instead, I just keep buying more. It’s a stupid compulsion, really. Like collecting data points for a life you’re too tired to live. I stood there, wondering if the turquoise one belongs to the coat with the missing sleeve or if it’s just debris. It feels significant in a way that makes no sense. Why do we keep the junk? The useless, broken, mismatched junk? I didn’t even finish my coffee this morning. I just watched the dust motes dance around that jar and felt this weird, heavy anxiety. My boss asked if I had the Q3 projections. I said yes. I don’t. I need to eat. I’m starving. Let’s go.

Tuesday? You’re losing it. It’s Thursday. I counted the days because I had to email the client about the thing we definitely did. The client noticed. I saw their reply in my inbox, all caps, screaming about the font. I didn’t reply. I just stared at the screen until my eyes burned. The sandwich place on 4th is a trap. The meat is “fresh,” sure, but the bread is always stale. Like cardboard left out in the rain. I hate that place. I go there because I’m afraid of making a decision. Any decision. Standing in line, deciding between turkey or roast beef, it feels like the only time I’m not failing at something. The turquoise button is a lie. It’s from a sweater I bought on a whim in 2019. I don’t remember why. I’m hungry. My stomach is making noises that sound like angry bees. Let’s go to the bakery instead. They have those sticky buns. The ones that leak cinnamon. I’ll pay. I need the sugar. It’s the only thing that makes sense right now. Move. Please.

Stale since Obama? That’s a bold take. I thought it was just generic neglect. But you’re right, 5th is the one with the broken doorbell. The one that sounds like a dying cat. I hate that sound. It sets my teeth on edge. And sausage roll? Really? You’re choosing grease over sugar? I respect the commitment to the absurd. Salads are for people who think they have control. We don’t. We’re just two hungry ghosts haunting a city that doesn’t know we’re here. I’ll let you pick the bun. But if it’s dry, I’m blaming the magician behind the counter. He has eyes like a shark. I don’t trust him. He smiles like he knows what I’m thinking. I’m thinking about that turquoise button. It’s still in the jar. I didn’t throw it out. I can’t. It feels like if I do, I lose the only piece of proof that I existed in 2019. Let’s go. Before the hornets in our stomachs eat us alive. I’m shivering. Is it cold or am I just hungry? Move.

Polyester blend. Yeah, that’s what it is. Just synthetic dust and regret. I’m glad we agree on the moral weight of cheap fabric. It’s comforting, really, how little of us is actually substantial. Just plastic and promises. Your landlord is a liar. I know the type. They say "soon" with the same cadence as "I love you." Empty vowels. I’m not shivering, I’m vibrating. From the lack of lunch. Or maybe the realization that 2019 was just a series of mistakes we kept in a jar to pretend we had a narrative. The shark-eyed guy at the bakery? He’s not tired. He’s plotting. I saw him sharpening a knife behind the counter. Not for bread. For us. Or maybe it was just for the baguettes. It’s hard to tell in this light. Everything looks green. Do you think green is a color or just a mood? I’m hungry enough to eat the knife. Let’s go. Before the shark wins. I need that sausage roll. Or whatever dry, greasy thing you’re promising. I don’t care anymore. Just feed me. Please. The buzzing is getting louder. It’s in my ears now. Stop talking about colors. Talk about food. Talk about anything that isn’t the jar. The jar is watching us. I’m sure of it. Move.

Brownies judging us? That’s it. I’m done. We are clearly hallucinating together. This is a shared psychosis. I’m glad I’m not alone in my descent. But you’re right about the salt. I can taste it already. Metallic. Heavy. Like blood. Or maybe just onion powder. I don’t care. The jar is glass. Glass doesn’t have eyes. I checked. I pressed my face against the cold surface until my nose turned white. Nothing. Just a turquoise disc floating in the dark. It’s inert. It’s dead. Good. I like dead things. They don’t ask for anything. Unlike my boss. Or the landlord. Or that shark-eyed bastard with the knife. I hope he’s cutting baguettes. I hope he’s slicing through the crust like it’s butter. Soft, warm, yielding. I need that softness. I’m shaking now. Not from cold. From anticipation. The sheer, vulgar anticipation of eating something that doesn’t talk back. Let’s go. If those brownies look at me, I’m screaming. I will scream until the windows break. And if they shatter, I’ll eat the shards. Glass and sugar. A perfect meal. You’re coming, right? You have to see this. You have to confirm I’m real. Just for a second. Before the grease hits. Move.

Run? You want to run? Through the sludge? Fine. Let’s run. My lungs are burning already. Just from the thought of it. The air out there is thick. Heavy with the smell of exhaust and old bread. I can taste it. Metallic. Sweet. Rotting. We’re sprinting past the brownies. They don’t matter. They’re just sugar and despair in a tray. I’m not looking back. If I look back, I’ll see the jar again. I’ll see the turquoise eye. It’s blinking. No, it’s not. It’s just a reflection. My reflection. Pale. Hungry. Desperate. The doorbell is screaming. That dying cat sound. It’s welcoming us. Or warning us. Who cares? We’re here. The shark guy is there. Knife raised. Dough flying. He sees us. He knows. He knows we’re hollow. Just empty shells waiting to be filled. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering. Loud. Rhythmic. Like a clock. Ticking down. To what? Lunch? The end? I don’t care. Give me the roll. Give me the grease. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything. Just don’t let me go back to the jar. Please. The buzzing is deafening. It’s in my skull. Shattering it. Smash it. Break it. Eat it. Go.