By John McLaughlin
“Youphoria can help you …”
No, no—it’s all wrong.
“Youphoria is the answer to …”
Better, warmer—but terrible still. Backspace, backspace.
The easy-injector is practically calling from my front shirt pocket; to hell with the rules. I feel for it, flick it open (an elegant motion) and drive the needle into my left shoulder. One prick followed by a black blossoming of pupils.
Youphoria is Sunday afternoon daydreams; scent of mothballs in Grandma’s basement; summer sunbeams puncturing clouds after the storm.
The cleaning lady’s vacuum bumps the desk and I’m pulled back into my skull. But the words still fail me.