Sunday

I must lay my weary head. Before I do so I must count woodgrains on a table, or mold a sculptural representation of angst out of playdough. This way only truly will I sleep the sleep of hollow tubes, will I dream of Georgian fissures swallowing my viscous self, will I encounter small beasts larger than the elegant imagination can hold.

I must do these things. Otherwise…

I am not oh-see-dee, no perhaps I have a personality disorder though. Come and diagnose me, oh thou with a doctorate. You just try. I will be sitting here with my playdough.