I ate bread in bed.
Consumption with gumption functioned only to disperse a perverse curse upon my Devan.
Man, do I regret it.
Tucking into toast in the most sacred of spaces.
Now I'm left to deftly get every crumb from every cleft.
Every fold.
Every crease.
It never ceases to amaze, the ways crumbs can hide in every nook.
Now I've taken the quilt and shook.
With all my might.
Taken the quilt and taken flight.
Night-time nightmare.
Every square inch is a pinch.
I only had a slice.
Christ, I must have found five loaves.
I'm due a few fish next, so the story goes.
Right, the bed has been swept.
I slapped, shook, straightened, and wept.
I've slept on beaches, and seen inner-city dramas less gritty.
Covers cover me, and pillow pillars hold my head in place.
Investigative wriggles find no trace.
I embrace the distance draw of dreams.
I welcome the sand man.
Sand?
Shit.
