You should return phone calls, but don't imagine that the other person is hunkered down like a patient ostrich, beady eyes reflecting the glow of their cell phone screen. With Gregorian chant soundtrack, this scene plays on a loop, drobbly black guilt coursing through your most important arteries.
Let us acknowledge that on a good day, the cavern of your skull is clanking, a cage full of brooding lobsters, lurching from side to side with the tide's flow. On a bad day: chickens, thrown into the coursing river, squawking, punctuated white flutters.
In the morning, dream is indistinguishable from memory. Both are just creations based on experience, and you are not psychic. Dragging your boots through either swamp will not propel you forward at the desired rate.
There is no need to gain entry to the zoo, no need to scrutinize the temperaments of the animals. Better is to repeat mantra, letting it soak through, saturating everything with a Pepto Bismal pink calm. Wet feathers stay heavy.
Originally published over at A Thing of Today.
