The tubes.

 Along the quickly narrowing line of worldly engagement, sitting up, back to my pillow with my head checking out -my hand has something to say.

 

Without censor and just too drowsy to care, a scratch, and scrawl of something- scribbled on cheap cardboard.

 

At first comical

After a 200, a person has to consider… why?

 

Now recorded on the everyday consumer throwaway item, there was fury, and fight and lust and oh yes love, and musing and stewing obsessively.  Organically my body hummed with digestion, slumped with fatigue, quivered, dozing off. What little control ! I remember on the tubes! 

 

My sleepy weakening logic fought  to maintain dominance,  it vigilantly added and subtracted, it calculated the angle of incidence carrying my slowly sinking self into my truthful wishful dreams. But it lost.

 

Circling around all of this, my pajamas are looking foolish just like the inhabitant .  Over and over, and over and over, and then never again. 

The tubes multiply , a visual journal counting nothing profound. Until they add up one Bounty and Charmin  after another.

 

 My wheel of heaven written on my trash.