Sentience Sargasso


Three hours.

Too many.

Roll over.

Kick off blankets.

Tumble to ground.

Stare into mirror.


Eyes bloodshot.

Very severe halitosis.

Buttered toast.


Four creamers.

Half-dozen donuts.

Channel 8 for the activity.

Radio on loud in the car.

Weaving in lanes.


Clock in.

Check e-mails.

Start typing reports.

Words start running together.

The characters start making pictures.

Nightmares come alive amidst the budget.

My head dives into the keyboard.

Carl peeks into my cubicle.

Linda says my name.

Chad pokes me.

I do not respond to them.

I do not see Chad, nor Linda, nor Carl.

Instead I see those things that haunt my dreams.

Eighteen hours of sleep this past week.

Eighteen too many.

I weakly grab for my pencil mug.

My head still remains buried in the keyboard.

A battalion of letter "k"s march across the Word document.

My saliva drips out from the corners of my mouth.

Blackness tugs at the corners of my eyes.

Unconsciousness seizes me.

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