Almost Museum Quality.

Crinkly: The only way to describe a thirteen hour work day after three hours of fitful sleep. These tender hands like frills on a rug and the body billowing without conscious wavelengths. Empty tender: sallow, creased eyes rolled up like dollar bills loosely piled upon something for someone with a predisposition for lamb destruction without a purpose. They're grazing upon the bedspread like tiny balls of cotton and my eyes lolling, looking out upon the expanse of tailored squares led to believe they are some landscape full of tiresome creatures made to grow hair and die. Made to blow fair and timely winds across this verdant patch low down on the planets waistline. Upside down and harpooned with the urban lightplay shooting up in my eyes I've realized the seasons are reversed and I'm having a holiday barbecue with someone I abhor. The alcohol is a calm hand upon my brow and the tears leap into the pores like pre-drowned kidneys all wasted up in the long forgotten inebriated early morning hours. Where someone drained a bottle and someone looked out upon a city landscape with a sentiment akin to infant gurgles. Where something fell without sound. Where no one heard: I've lost a good thing and gained a good thing. Where no one saw: I've severed a good thing and attached a good thing. Where there was an abduction in the woods and at that precise moment, the preteen debutante was released from her horrifying ransom grab situation into the loving embrace of her preternaturally endowed financial predicament. Some sort of arrangement must be made to keep a logical ratio of sleeping and waking lest the zombies walk out into the fields to become me in a moment or two.