I opened my eyes this morning and stared at a sliver of light sneaking into the room between the window frame and the deep red curtains. My body was aching from the stillness, as usual, because I sleep like a stone. The bed, freshly made when I get into it at night, is barely ruffled when I wake. This night must have been cold, because my limbs were curled tightly into my body. There used to be a sense of peace in these first moments, but these days I feel like I’m rising from the dead, out of a deep, unbroken, utterly dreamless sleep. When I used to share my bed I learned that I don’t snore, or make any noise, or wake easily in the night. I just lie there for a six to eight hour coma, then open my eyes to take in a sliver of morning light, step out of the sheets, and pull them back over. This morning, I stood over the perfectly made bed that needed no making at all, and thought: it is as if I hardly existed. As if I was never even really there.


About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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