Yield. Lee Houck

this part of the deal?

      I find it again: the place where everything is flat, the place where I can concentrate. Count to four. Focus on that electric buzz, the humming white noise of the wind and the open sky. The sugary smell comes first, brainwaves firing, burned at the edges. Fizzled out, cauterized, popping like a bad circuit. The tiny white hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then the flat place emerges again, rising from underneath me like scenes changing at the opera: one moment this room, this man, and then next—the gray blank world where everything is safe.