goldilocks

late night must be God's way to allow us to recover from the day's trauma. when exhaustion consumes each move, the mind numbs into a nice overcharge, like working the graveyard shift, like unloading trucks for a conglomerate retailer while the world sleeps. just give me a little itunes, some madeleine peyroux, or a shuffle mix of playlists. with the web at my fingertips, questions to search out, i let the hours run by. did i excavate deep thots of profundity back in the pre-computer era? did i waste that time and just not know i was immobile and dull? or was i more available, more touchable, candid and elastic? who hasn't wondered at progress anyway? what would it be like to return to porch-sitting, snapping peas and rocking the cares away, as a baby swaddled and unaware? well, i am doped with a sleepy brain pulling me toward clean, red flannel sheets, and my own goldilocks bed to comfort me.  i tumble to the lullaby of rarified dreams that muddle and swirl their abstract tones to teach inside of me about the traumas of this day, many as they are. sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof...