For Kung Foo, may you forever inspire.
Becoming a Duvet, the latest from up-sleeve, did not help my case. Apathy of gnosis worsened, tardiness accelerated and debauchery, kept under wraps, rejoiced in unabashed growth.
I’ll keep you posted, but for now I feel flat and unloved, maker didn’t make me today, left in a huff (humming a dirge).
The maker came back and made me. He laughed with a woman, saying, “You can tell it’s been a weird day if I didn’t make my bed…” she’s peering inside his skull with her soul and he doesn’t see it. She makes me with him. It takes me a long time to realize she has an accent. She’s got to be from Europe. I wrap them in this love they harbor. It smells like wisteria. They hide from it, so I try to help. I know how sad he’ll be tomorrow; perhaps another where I’ll lay unmade.
I feel a bit better about the whole duvet thing now that I realize how important I am to this one (the maker). He sleeps while I write this, I hope I don’t wake him. If I can cover him, I can cover the world. More later.