Hypersomnia

I dormouse-slept all weekend long. Curled up tight inside my private teapot, I dreamed in languid sepia toned flashes of annihlation and inspiration. Every time I woke, I'd blink sleep-filled eyes blearily at the clock, then bury my face amidst the feather pillows and freshly laundered sheets once more.

In sleep and dreams, I could forget about the pain of my newly bashed and bruised hand, an ode to my own clumsiness. I could deny the creaks and cricks of my aging spine and injured knees. I can deny the coming September days that creep inevitably forward.

In sleep and dreams, I can construct a crystalline and perfect existence where nothing hurts and nobody cries.