A Prose Poem Every Word of Which Is True

It's the witching hour on a July night, or morning. You're lying naked in bed with some type of splinter in your foot because you and your roommate both had a terrible day and nobody swept the kitchen floor. You had a terrible day because you had to authorize three thousand dollars for a car fix that might not even work; the mechanic is having a hard time explaining why not in terms that you can understand. The three thousand dollars are mostly your parents’ money, which is to say, your late grandparents’ money. They were with an oil supermajor and are thus also partly responsible for the fact that it is a muggy night even for July, yet still the least muggy night in days and days—and people still deny something is amiss here, because anecdotal evidence counts when it's cold out but not when it's hot out. You try to say a prayer for your grandparents in purgatory but for some reason what comes out is “Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu melech ha’olam hatov v’ha’meitiv,” which is true but not helpful in the moment. You feel fat, and a bout of the gender dysphoria is setting in. A singer you like a lot did a theme song for a movie you were going to see, but now you don't think you'll bother because it turns out the author of the book on which it is based is wanted in connection with a murder case in the Republic of Zambia and has been for some time. Eventually at some point that you might or might not live to see history will consummate its triumph over time and we will, as they say, all look back on this and laugh. Do you know where your soul is? I do, saith the Lord.