consciousness/training/amygdala_stories/stories/calm.txt

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The snow had been falling since before I woke up. I made tea and sat in the window seat and watched it come down past the streetlight across the way. Somewhere a plow scraped past, muffled. My hands were warm on the cup. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular — the day ahead existed somewhere off to the side, not demanding. Even my shoulders, which are usually up somewhere near my ears, had drifted down to where shoulders belong. The tea cooled slowly. I drank it that way.