As I lay in bed, I imagine the following: I am staring at the plaster swirls on my ceiling and, as my eyes slowly shut, my jaw tightens like a rusty lock in forced closure; my teeth fixing into position, working away at familiar grooves; and then the chalky squeak of enamel under all that unbearable pressure. Pressure that could make talc of diamonds. Pressure that would eventually lead to my teeth exploding like white bullets, as my crumbling jaw snapped inside my head, the ruined mandible eventually shafting my brain like some sort of internal decapitation. Squeezed tight. Night night.
