by Will Kier

There are times when I screw up my sleep.
Usually not by choice.
Work or some state of affairs leaving me with four hours a night, five tops.
It adds up, and on about the sixth day my energy surrenders.
With it go willpower, patience, and kindness.
At about the same time I'll start staying up even later, doing nothing.
I don't know why, because my mind is so tired by then that it is useless.
I can't write, draw, walk the dogs, cook, clean, or talk to friends.
It is time usually spent in front of TV, reading magazines, or playing solitaire on the computer.
In the morning I can't even shave.
Finding it easier to convince myself that the stubble doesn't look too bad.
It is then that I pass into a new level of tiredness.
A level where my internal filters break down.
My senses so dull that I blend into my surroundings.
External filters providing all the substance I need.
TV and magazines doing it beautifully.
They practically digest themselves.
They're simply absorbed.
And with their help I can persist to function without sleep for quite some time.
And it's not that bad.
My voice vanishes.
My heart beats miles away.
My skin is a jacket that I remove.
My legs curl up becoming pillows I can sit on.
My genitals invert.
And once a day, I'll walk to the bathroom
on my hands
dragging my pillow legs under me.
And as I un-tuck my penis and relieve myself
I'll curse the monumental effort this bothersome task requires.