I roll out of bed for the third (or is it the
fourth) time, cartoon-legged and hunched.
Corns have become hot coals
on the soles of my feet as I slept.
All the tendons in my lower legs have
apparently shrunk by one centimeter each.
I cannot fully straighten my back
until I am half-way to the bathroom.
My left eyelid wants to roll up inside out
and needs a helping hand to just open.
The last two fingers of my left hand
are numb and humming with needles as
that arm must have been the one curled under
my head, pinching a nerve in shoulder or elbow.
Such is the night at oh-dark-past-forty.
Quasi Motive moves in the night.