Desperately Seeking Batteries
GOTTA GET OFF. GOTTA get off. Gotta-get gotta-get gotta get off.
I shut my eyes, but the alarm clock’s demon-red digits have branded the time inside my eyelids: 2:37. I try to sleep, but the harder I try, the louder my brain laughs at me.
And, pounding between my thighs, the beat goes on:
Gotta get off. Gotta get off. Gotta-get gotta-get gotta get off.
Does anybody actually count sheep anymore? Half this city probably couldn’t pick a sheep out of a line-up. Imagine how tired farmers must be at the end of the day. All that physical activity, hauling oats and lifting bails, or whatever they do. I guess I’m no better than my fellow citizens. I can visualize a sheep, but I couldn’t shear one. We live such alienated lives, so divorced from nature.
