previous  |  main  |  index  |  next

August 5, 2002 death rattle I hop out of bed like a rabbit with a broken leg.  How could I hurt myself sleeping?  Hobbling to the bathroom, ratchety as hell, I hear what sounds like a death rattle.  Not so.  It is the percussion of psychotropic pills tumbling and clicking in my stomach like a maraca. Where did I leave my glasses?  I cannot see well enough to find them.  When I lived with my family, they'd find the glasses for me.  I am on a waiting list for a seeing-eye hamster. The acceleration of passing time has moved from insidious to noticeable to pronounced to absurd.  It now moves at warp-speed.  The garbage is picked up only once a week.  Yet I bring it to the curb every day, or so it seems.

©  2002 by the beastmaster