What was the word? The one that captured that feeling last night that came while wandering home in the dark? Untethered?

Un-tethered.

Like a balloon on a string that came untied from a child’s hand, turning this way and that and sometimes scudding along the pavement before being carried aloft again.

No direction to speak of.

Somewhere over the Soviet Union and it’s 1983.

It feels like 1983 but who knows when it really is. It could be last year, or yesterday.

War and carnage fuck with the head like that. It’s too real so it’s easier to disassociate and sleepwalk through it. You won’t even need the drugs after a while. You wake up, look around, and check out at will. Like flipping a switch and then after a while you can’t find the switch anymore and you’re untethered.

It’s not so bad.

Less pressure.