I sleep more, but enjoy the recovery far less than when I was rudderless and vitiated. For my contemporaries, there is so much left to overlook as fading, while taking for granted the slowing fondness for superlatives. The rut grows arms and legs-and even teeth- depending upon the naiveties of the clingy operative. I wonder if I stare long enough at the impeding glass, will it too peel aside, puzzled that I was resistant to being lead to where the skinsuits were being fashioned? Outside, there would be more distractions than the occasional nail that was stuck in the carpet. Not those splayed from metal or tin, but the curved, hollowed edges that I would need should I choose to cross the rusty grooves of an osculating track. There was also a flapping feather that had to have come from the tiniest of birds-the soft whites would have been well-conditioned for flight, should the pen-like shaft ever break free of the wired mesh that keeps the rotted wooden fence from giving way. But it was not a working fence, so naturally, patterned hexagons were there to rub the salt in-flicking the flimsiest roots of my concentration for play. The litterbox always smelled more acidic, escalating- the longer that the distorted leaves below were able to hold past injuries as culpable, intertwined in a maddening ballet. Turning sideways does lure bounding pods of light, I assumed that both of us entities had been deemed a surplus to the circling of an acceptable dissertation. I am often unsure of what I am writing, but the mystery of confession leaves me temporarily satisfied for trying to thank the conscriptions of my birth. In the new year, I am leaning towards the ways of a Fire Lookout. Perched high above the line of trees, for once my recurrent responsibilities and past aspirations would fit- the lesser half-tucked below the level of what would normally be deemed a failure without objection or tendered regret. There would be no mesh or carpet. Only cool wood and the occasional whistle that would salute onlookers hurriedly heading my way. I could be a great many things and the warm blotches of the sky would have no idea from where to find me. Possibility matters little, as a purpose should be calm and driven, for there are plenty of unsuspecting souls happy that the sun would still make time to include their halted or misdirected advances-bequeathing only a ceremonial bouquet. I close my tired eyes one last time and shake off the clutches of the year’s final encampment. Optimistically, I believe that Hemingway would make perfect sense, if like me- he never found the silver lining. Atop the smoke and haze, I hope to wake bemused-covered in the baptismal glow of a shrinking infant-chosen for applause and escape. Underneath the shrubbery-finds nothing remarkable to be learned-other than a troubled skeptic-tiptoeing between the resurrection of a broken leash and the welcoming home of an inconsolable mistake.