Hat Man

Lightning gnawed at the horizon all night, indifferent to your insomnia. You lay fetal, half-cocooned in a wool blanket, cradling an unread copy of Jung’s Man and His Symbols—its pages thumbed, spine exhausted, the way you preferred their books and most people. Rain raked the window with an urgency that seemed personal, and every few minutes gravity shifted beneath your bed, as if the apartment itself was unmoored.