This evening I feel very odd. My pupils seem very dialated, and I have trouble concentrating. I get sort of shakey. Sort of panicky. Ectoplasm abounds in the apartment.
This generally happens at the gloaming. Tonight the air is especially humid. Ripe for the transmision of paranormal energies.
I flip on the radio to make things feel normal. Evening music produces some big band rendition of "My Country Tis of Thee." I pour myself a glass of apple cider vinegar. The cartoons in this week's New Yorker are dumb.