fading to sleep
I feel strangely tied to this chair, this wretched red recliner that I have mated to. The rest of my head against the cushion seems to be magnetic, implacably fastening it. I cannot lift the head a single degree. The languor that it induces from me must be Pavlovian in nature; it was certainly not instinctive, but only by the relationship of this chair to so many mystical intercourses of mind and body and hopes and back-lit blog postings. And here I sit at this very moment, one foot into the void, half-reading Proust and writing about things that I have forgotten, and that conditioned comfort creeps forth to again draw me away from my vital duties. I have no morale to fight the tides of torpidity, so let them take me. The window I face seems to retreat upon my stare, receding into the dark walls surrounding it like light from outside escaped through a tunnel. Reality funnels in the gap, the exit is trapped, and my fate is pinned.