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My Fan.

My fan has started making sounds. I should get it fixed. Its back is broken. Its head stares at my feet. I have to lie back to feel something.

It's still not fixed, and it's been two months. Now it creaks, but can't everything speak a little? I am not cruel. It's dusty. I haven't cleaned it in ages, and I think my lungs can tell, so can my pants as they brush against it, gathering the dust that clings to the metal.

I have this vision of the main screw flying out into my roommate's side as I look on in disbelief, watching the blades fall, the imbalance making the fan tip over. The whole room, for a moment, waits for the crash.

I see it happen. I will see it happen if I don't do what I must. Only if I complete it can I feel the air directed at my body.

Is it punishment or a reward? Maybe both. It’s as if the fan itself is waiting, its broken back and weary head demanding attention, asking me if I dare to leave it any longer.

Asking if I, too, will collapse under the weight of all I’ve left undone.

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