45. Sunday morning, I’m in bed, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, an attempt to escape reality, but knowing I’m now at a time in the morning I have to face the day. That truth ushers in an unnavigable dread – this knowing that there’s maybe sixteen waking hours where I have to live in this new reality, but it’s a reality that I don’t want any part of. The worst thing is I don’t see an end to this. Even my relationship with Lana, as inexorable as it might’ve seemed when I was in it, always felt finite. This doesn’t. All that remains is the infinity of…