SURFING
A disembodied voice calls up and down the streets, unearthing me from my sheets.
"...must be moved by..."
Soon other noises join the call and I submit to the inevitability of waking up. If I don't move, I can stay cocoon-like for another fifteen minutes. The shower is going and I hear it through the walls. I drift away in the momentary lull and see shadows of last night's dreams slowly drowning in a rising tide. Objects drift by, clinging feebly to their names. Some opportunists have taken it upon themselves to borrow longer words from the unfortunately large who have seemingly already succumbed to the icy depths. A pen lazes by safely atop 'piano.' A guitar fights valiantly for its title and, aided by its natural buoyancy, very nearly succeeds in reclaiming it from the pig who, with all his girth, simply could not manage atop his own three letters.
Now I am sinking. Without noticing, I have been burgled of my Christian name. Aloof and without bearings for reorienting myself, I sink into the waking world. Gravity reverses seamlessly and now I am emerging upward into my body atop the softly solid mess of my bed. The shower has stopped and there is conversation outside of my door. The officious government recording is still speaking several blocks away, but now the words are completely indistinguishable. I hear my name spoken and instinctively grab for it, forgetting why even as I do. There was some momentary sense of urgency, but now it is gone. Automatonically, I sit up, outstretched arm still dangling in the ether. The weight of my hand imparts force along the lever of my arm to the fulcrum that is my shoulders and carries me straight through the sitting position into a slumped position with my head resting on my right knee
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