The cell phone goes off like a rattlesnake at the foot of my bed. Torn from the supporting machinery of a complicated dream, I am certain that I am about to die. I scramble like pale egg white in a smoking pan. The lingering stench of sleep makes me dizzy. Usually, the diabolical fumes remain unnoticeable as they seep from your reasoning and cling to your clothes, at least until the mid-afternoon when they suddenly mature with a tang of disappointment and they make you feel violently sick. The mean words of a kind idea shimmer in my head. They’re too bright to bear, and they sting my mind’s eye, punching vision holes when I look right at them. But I know what they say. Wash this all away.
Quit Vision 