Snooze

In an attempt to broaden my horizons, I'm going to move on to greener pastures and discuss only the finer things. From here on out I'll concern myself with love and beauty, the intellect, positivity. I mean, I love love; who doesn't? Astral Weeks is my theme song. The cute staccato flutes, chirping like birds, sing to the rhythm of my sunshine heart. My lashes, when I blink, make the sound of tambourines. See, I can do this.

I tried to make it to the gym everyday this week, and failed each time. I'm hopeful that starting Monday I'll get back on track. Optimism is my opium. I will smoke it until I am blissfully incapacitated and unaware, unconcerned about the spider in whose web I've made a nest.

The morning is grey. My bedroom windows are overcast and opaque, fogged up like shower doors. In San Francisco, October ushers in autumn, its gusting winds sweep away fallen leaves and cover the sky in cobwebs. I have a saccharine taste on my tongue, cloying, like a mouth full of candy corn. I'll need to brush my teeth. The salve of sweet peppermint will soon wash away the flavor of sleep. Not yet, but soon.

I cling to these idle, morning moments like cold hands in white December folding old, familiar clothes. Smoothing over wrinkles, softening, enfolded by the warm smell of clean sheets. I'm sleepily encumbered, somnolent, lazy and drifting, sinking deeper into dream each time I rest my eyes. It is so much like a drug.

I can think of nothing more pleasant than lying here, for just a little while longer.