Friday, April 28, 2017


The night doesn't end. It spills into day and sloshes and stains. I am not an owl. Not a night owl. Not I. I am awake. I curl the pillow under my head, raise it higher. Sleep noisy little head! But these thoughts, really, they are cancerous and never seem to stop. They grow, and grow, and grow, rising like dust, they swirl between these walls, whirlwinds, tornadoes, storms. Stardust? I dream with my thumb. I twist, new cheek kissing pillow piled on itself. I turn, and turn, and turn, ticking away on my bed. Wait a that sleep? Leftover night mingles with bad breathed morning, light unveils belligerent day to cut second hand sleep to pieces. And then, at noon, there is nothing to combat the grogginess of summer and sweat.

So you, too, having the time of your life?

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