she drinks coffee like it is her float in the sea she drowns in, chugs it like it'll buoy her better or let her use less effort in keeping alive

(her legs are kicking anyway, mouth screaming defiant at the sea in spitfuls of salt water, and her eyes are blurred angry sore red, brows hooked like an eagle's staring down prey)

-and she should fit in with the insomniacs, whose one associated item are styrofoam coffee cups of mom-and-pop diners and the accompanying coffee rings on formica table tops (as if all insomniacs are the same and if they were they would only have one token, but we'll pretend this is an amateur author's first novel) but she's not quite them and she's not quite one of the living, either-

   oh
      oh
         silly goose, silly me



the insomniacs are one of the living.










are they?