October 8

ALARM CLOCK

The dream-killer plays its harsh tones. I pull my lids, so unwilling to wake. The tip of my tongue, dry to leather, welcomes the wet of my toothbrush. I grin a foaming smile. I run through my night's travels; I mentally wonder the highlights, ponder the implications and meanings. Dressed, with open door breeze in my face, I leave nighttime escapades for daytime pandemonium. The only thing that won’t leave me is the last image before the gong sounded.

Tie paper dolls of people into books that may help them.