Cigarette buds. Smelly socks. Glass bottles. Ripped corks. White washed surroundings. He was filled by scattered nothingness around. He stared at the garrulous fan shrieking an ‘i-no-longer-care’ tone. The ceiling was hypnotizing him as he awaited his nothingness to be galloped by something-‘ness’. He wondered about fitting in the place, fitting into the whole picture as a small nut bolt. He reserved his apprehensions. He saw flaws all around. The more he peered into the walls, the more he saw into the patterns and their ways. They weaved into the white overlay smoothly for a distant onlooker. everything is so perfect from far-off he murmured as his heavy eyelids dropped in a lumber.
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Just once, just once, I'd like to keep the perfect sleep. You know the one I'm taking about. You fall asleep on a train, or someone's couch, or in a hospital, and it's perfect. The ecstasy of the unlikely. And then some bastard wakes you up and you can't get it back, no matter how hard you try. You never knew it was perfect until you lost it. And all you have left is that sick burning desire to get it back. The perfect sleep.
