The swell of the hangover headache crests and wakes Int up from sleep. He’s been in this state with increased frequency since the move to Budapest. It’s a comfortable discomfort by this point, terrain he knows well and prays to for its ability to quiet the voices in his head, as it necessitates the rallying of all strength toward subduing the throb. They are a simple task, these broken Sundays. Feel better. The oxygen for doubt and confusion has been syphoned out overnight as a sacrifice to his Krebs cycles, leaving Int at lower vibrations to walk through impeccably. Water, coffee, an easy book, another coffee. Smile weakly at the sun, a nap. Light dinner. Call it early.
The city’s beauty declares itself the whole day long, even as Int can barely hold his focus. The perception of the gem is not smothered by his own density on these Sundays. He is clean, if small.