Maybe there are dreams or simple unrest, but I find myself every morning rearranging the stack of blankets that have been turned and strewn around the room. It looks like a battlefield.
I feel I have slept well, but the covers show there was a trauma in the darkness.
Riding a bike every day is a progressive pattern of movement that put pressure of legs churning up and down against the narrow leather seat.
Every mile rubs on the material of the rider’s pants until the wear is apparent.
The continued chaff creates small holes and with daily wear, the seat tears.
Today I realize, this pair of jeans I have been wearing for the past month must go to the trash, but the battle in the bedroom will continue.
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