The Small Screen


The bed has a way of pulling you into it. Pulling you deep beneath covers, under pillows and blankets and sheets, drowning in an ocean of thread counts and fibers and the entrance to sleep. It lifts and carries, calls and cajoles, lilts and lulls ~ the combined effect of which serves to deliciously disorient on the order of the lotus-eaters.

Rippling water like waves of desert sand in Egyptian cotton.

The folds of the body of the earth.

Hazy, ambient noise of gauze and womb, soft and warmly inviting yet cold and hard as glass. A throw, a reflection, a question of indeterminate origin, lingering in the grainy atmosphere.

The erudite world collapses. The edges dissipate and disappear. The straight lines bend and sway and drop off completely. The corners curve and bounce back.

It is sucking you in, and there is no way out.

And then you are gone.

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