The needle drops, the needle falls.
I get out of bed to adjust the temperature.
Legs are like ice-pops.
I feel the hair standing up as I scurry across the cold wood floor.
There’s a metal needle on the side, it’s rusty.
I wiggle it to make sure it actually works.
Nothing to do at this hour but wait for the morning.
I know when I wake up the sun will rise and the thermostat will have to go down again anyway.
Feels like I’m trying to fight nature with a fickle tool.
There’s still nothing to do.
I’m up now but I have nothing planned.
Now I’m hungry.
Stomach growling, maybe I’ll see what’s in the fridge, or on YouTube.
Blaring blue lights zap me out of sleep for sure.
Red needle plays against the whites of my eyes.
Time is a little bit slower, I swear.
Heavy. Lead. Feet are actually still tired.
What am I doing here?
My mind starts buzzing, I’m warming up and forgetting why I even came down in the first place.
Not sure if the thermostat is starting to work, or if my body is warming up on it’s own.
There is always a fire burning inside that keeps me going.
A char.
A blackened char that smells pungent.
Perhaps things need to be burned in order to produce energy that can be utilized.
I’m too tired to care.
Going back to bed.

Object WritingDerek Sammak