The bed is not the same

If I could remember my dreams with regularity perhaps I could be sure of having dreamed that this would happen. But I only suspect it, I cannot say it with confidence, lest I be struck down by some force of which I am ignorant but which I suspect is there, recording everything into a ledger, a series of ledgers rather, a library housed not on this planet but elsewhere in the vast spaces beyond. There it is recorded that I dreamed or that I did not dream that this would happen to my bed, that it would be misshapen in this way, after I had been away. How long have I been gone, anyway, I should have been wearing a wristwatch, I should have taken my cell phone, I should have checked the clock before I left, but I am so thorough, so detail-oriented, that I had to finish the job and finish it well. Not a hair is out of place. And who will know it? Who will see my work? It’s laughable, all of it. And yet, I don’t feel like laughing. It’s out there, the work, it’s all out there. All you have to do is walk into the woods, of course there is no path, there are no markings. You would have to know where I went I suppose, and I don’t have the time to tell you about that. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to complete nearly as many projects, and of projects I have more than I can hope to complete in my lifetime. What gets me, though, is the shape of this bed. It once was a square. Rather, it was a rectangle, but the corners were square. They were squared, rather, with a dee at the end. Though the corners did not come to a perfect point but where rather rounded, as befits a bed, there should be nothing sharp about a bed. But my bed should be a little bit sharper than it has become. I can hardly see. I suppose night must have fallen. I would do good to install a window in this room.

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