25, 16, 36, 49, 64, ...

2, 3, 5, 10, 7, but who's counting. I would like to sleep through this one, in a bed of grass and leaves and rocks, or under a blanket of cotton and smoke, ghosts in my lungs, stars in my eyes, meaningful and meaningless, one in the same. I would like to sleep through this one, and possibly the next. Avoiding commitments and obligations, promising nothing to no one not excluding mineself. I would like to sleep through this one and the next five, unawoken, woken refreshed, woken anew, bright, shining, alive, tackier than any sequined set of chaps, a vest, or fake eyelashes. I would like to sleep through this one, instead, I'll walk around with ghosts in my lungs, tress in mine eyes, and porches in the back of mine head. I'll promise everything to no one and nothing to everyone, not excluding mineself. Ill rise in the late morning hungover and cloudy, groggy, undercaffinated and dehydrated. I'll arise like I had in the ones preceding. Old, worn, worked, tarnished, duller than a generic hoddie. I'll walk around with saints in my lungs and ghosts in mine eyes.