A month on

Sometimes things move slowly, like old cars or stale air. Sometimes things get made out of things moving slowly. An old truck becomes a statue without ever knowing it, a tribute to decay. But then one morning, you wake up and realize you have to breathe again, and it hurts, because it's so unfamiliar. But then the first breath gets inhaled and then exhaled, and it's ok, then another and another, and it begins to feel like childhood again.