I love Fridays.
Possibilities endless, mornings just begging to be slept through. Go home, wolf down something hot or sweet or salty, and ooze into the mattress like glue. Music in the background - sometimes not - but never soundless, with the fan always on. Slow, deep breaths, deliberate until they're unconscious.
Awaken.
Slowly.
Then all at once.
"Just a few more minutes. It can't hurt."
And it can't. Not when Saturday noon comes around, promising sun-kissed skin and... listen. Listen.
Music.
Go back to bed. You'll sleep well.
YOU ARE READING
Twisted Dreams
PoetryA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
