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 a censor, and just too drowsy to care, a scratch, and scrawl of something- scribbled on cheap cardboard.

 

At first comical

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

 

Now  the tubes have recorded the day on the everyday consumer throwaway item. In the process here was fury, fight, confusion and lust , love, and musing while stewing obsessively.  Organically, my sleepy body hummed with digestion, slumped with fatigue, quivered, dozing off. Giving up control I remember pen to cardboard 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 logic lost.

 

Circling above all of this, I dream 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.