my room is all alive. an exotic jungle of cotton pads, scissors, sharpeners, scraps and empty glasses. well half full if you wanna look on the bright side. business is good for the case of ole idle hands. sitting around, hearing all the sounds of the world go by and still. grounded, pulled by the great force of the earth to the seat. gravity they say. an ever present omnipotent force.
a comical jungle. with stuffs upon stuffs everywhere. not a place to rest a drink. not a place to rest. piles upon piles of clothing and clothed goods. heaps upon heaps of old water warped books. please forgive the mess, i beg of myself. tonight i will work, tonight i will bend forward and pick up the slacks that have grown wrinkled under the heavy woollen sweater. i'm sorry to the silk blouse that has been enduring months of unyielding pressure from her cotton-blend cousins who mock her discreetly as she forms age lines around her arm holes. i'm sorry baby.