Everything

The day greeted her with logical ties and binding grips of reality:
the woman and her soaking garden, the children playing at the park, the seemingly unnecessary sirens of ambulances on the nearly invisible street.
She got up and stretched - loud *crack* and *pop* sounding movements sprouted from her knees and arms.

This was it. She was up. Her jaw had somehow managed to survive yet another night of intense grinding; she knew - the pounding reminiscence of a headache still hovered over her and her gums felt swollen again. Her hair told the stories of unkept warfare fashion in the 1920's, while her stare was as vacant as bombarded lots.

But she was up. She opened her eyes and she faced herself in the mirror. She faced herself in the mirror and the blank stare followed her - every terrible, obligated breath; every fleeting memory of subconscious matter back into its cavernous socket; every hope of abandoning the tangible.
She was up.
She was up.
She. Was. Up.

"One more day," she thought. Within a couple of minutes, indifference began to carve itself upon her like festive Hallow's Eve lines on a pumpkin face, like the internal rings of trees.

She tried against her utmost will to search between the newly settled dust particles in her mirror for laughter and sighs and tears - the shape of a face in all its grandeur. A good part of the hours belonged to them - their smiles, their anecdotes, their care-giving, the overall binging debauchery - all of this was theirs to share. "All of this" she had, finally.

And she was awake, now.
Her eyes had opened this morning.
She faced herself in the mirror and followed the trail of an aching echo in her chest. She saw herself explore this cavity. She saw herself unbound and yet she felt the gravitational collapse of stars resting upon her shoulders, the implosion causing her to float and fall at once.

And, so she was able to dictate the direction of one final line:
"What is wrong at the end of the day?"
Everything.