As days pass over into weeks, rest passes over into sloth. For how much longer must I heal? Well, until once again I’m real. Fake it ‘till you make it, hon. At such answers my conscience shudders. It wills movement and my body listens, as my opportune imagination, silently alert, disguises itself as progressive thoughts while its prey fleshes itself out in proportions of governance to governed mimicking perfection, itself. Who wouldn’t stalk such earnest? This wholesome task, juicy with fluid iron, fresh with green insight into self-overcoming shall get nowhere fast. A dream emerges from a thicket of overgrown promise, as if determined directly into the air alongside particulates and vapors by the lone fact of my feeling its presence. Every time a fool follows, a fool follows what it knows. Paralyzed I gaze agape at my ceiling – modal possibility constricting modes of lived givenness as a great snake hungry for the sake of hunger, alone; in keeping with the circular patterns of passivity I’ve kept in a heap atop this memory foam for a set time, ill-measured on account of a deep-seeded disregard for strict standards residing in some dark crevice of my psyche . . . I blame television.