Something is wrong. Mizzie would think to herself for not the first, twenty-third, or even fiftieth time that day. The insidious notion was not borne from any intuition inside her. In fact, the absence of such as sense, an absence of worry or fear was precisely the genesis of the idea-- something is wrong. And from this something is wrong that liked to waft up from Mizzie's pillow in the morning time, an I feel nothing followed shortly after, perhaps simultaneously as its sister. The lack of emotion caused a certain inaction in its subject-- a no pressing urge to discover the sate of affairs-- only instead to passively acknowledge that something may be amiss and that this acknowledgment of unjustness, say, bred no feeling of paranoia or the least concern for Mizzie. In fact, she wanted to take a walk through the park to spell out what intuition told her that her absent intuition could mean, but just the thought of untangling what was looking more and more like a mass of previously unseen thistles, Mizzie felt sleepy. So much so, that her eyes closed and closed again as she tried to decide the order of her brain thoughts and how many doorways could something pass through before she lost sight of it completely.

I am wretched girl she admonished to herself. But the pathetic accusation, whether it stuck or not, on Mizzie's conscious had no affect on her morale. I am terrible loathsome un-awake creature. She added for good measure. Lazy too. Something turned over a little in her stomach. There, she then thought, some beginnings of a conscience. But she knew that wasn't right either.