wake up.
search for yet another reason to stay in bed.
realize that your alarm is not going off.
have a minor chest contraction.
look for a time telling device.
fall within it.
release yourself once and for all.
switch the number six and four.
take a breath, within it exists the birth and death of napoleon.
twitch your thumb, releasing another plague.
notice the crumbling.
search for a way out.
realize that the one door you see contains an infinite amount of doors on it.
reach out and feel the tiny pricks of doorknobs, ready.
pull a handful out.
listen to the orchestra play mozart’s “a walk through the forest becomes yet another reason to never come back” using only singing saws.
realize you have released yourself much too soon.
think about the coffee you should have had before falling, the special costa rican grounds you order every month online.
let the fear that costa rica doesn’t exist anymore because of your eye movement sink in.
as the song comes to an end look down at your hand, tiny doors writhing around in agony.
take one and put it in your mouth.
swallow.
feel how it is to become a sound wave.
pull yourself together.
hear the scream of your existence.
take another door, now a low wave, and consume it.
feel the breath of your second significant other as they tell you that you will never amount to anything more.
ride the breath out over the ocean both of you loved.
as you look back to see them one last time, you swallow another door.
sit down and take the exam.
take a moment to notice that the test in front of you contains a paper playing a movie entitled “the shot.”
feel indifferent about it.
pay close attention to the shot-reverse-shots.
wonder why there is an actor playing a gun.
sigh when you see nicolas cage enter the frame.
tear up when his character does not realize that he is within an exam.
finish the test.
notice how the numbers can’t seem to stop shaking on the page.
listen to a voice say “there must be a way” just behind your right ear.
feel around your pocket for more doors.
pick up the last one.
swallow.
look carefully at domino’s “new” marbled cookie brownie.
take a piece off.
read the short story on it.
feel enclosed by the words, the existence of explaining every one of your anxieties in a way that vibrates through your cells, so close to it all.
let your eyes adjust on the entire cookie brownie.
notice that it is a map.
feel the cardboard holding the brownie melt away.
breathe in and cough up memories, the time your mother drove you to the theatre to watch a play entitled “godzilla is the hero, get over it,” how you looked at the mirror hoping for a better time.
cough again.
look the funny cat compilation you watched the day you most feared for the future come out of your mouth.
feel the watch still around you.
thump your chest with your hand to the beat of the ticking hands.
tap on the glass.
see your room up above, playing itself like a soap opera.
let your hands feel a bed conform itself to your skin.
let yourself dream.
