Quoth the ravenous rumblings of a carnivore
Today’s one of those “what day is this?” days.
Clouds outside somehow drift inside and hover overhead no matter where I wander in the house.
Though my wandering is restricted by the square-footage within. I suppose I could venture out the door, but then I would succumb to demonic environmental whims, rendering me numb with cold feet stuck in a slipshod rut, an inevitable shoe-depression sinking deeper in mud.
Can’t have that.
At least while at home, my eyes won’t be pecked out by crows. Such loud haranguing furry-winged beasts. They flap their wings and caw till the cows come home and the pigs fly south. I am a sow ambling about in early morning sweats, the image of slothery (if there were such a word), where a free-for-all of time sends my thoughts drifting from a firmer focus between the lines.
I need structure, not chaos, since my mind usually flits about frenetically from thought-to-thought like a pinball bouncing off walls. As bells and whistles split ears and lights flutter for a moment in the heat of possibility, high numbers flash on the screen.
A blink of incremental time, as the ball rolls past slow flipping flappers guarding the goal. Down the ball goes, falling to the end of the line. I know I’ve got time, but it lingers behind the promise of progress.