Bed rotting’s not quite the right term this time

Found myself doing my damndest to sleep through the day again. Wake up, pull the wool over my eyes, block out the world, repeat. Certainly not a positive omen (what with Halloween and November 9th), so I force my eyes open, if only to scroll for an hour or two (anything to keep from slipping). There’s a man on my screen, dark bearded with an oaken guitar in his hands. I listen to his sweet, wine-dark voice, and it begins to enter my bones. Fills the holes in the marrow with the base warmth of love and life and as the sun breaches my blinds, everything becomes okay again. Or maybe it’s just easier to breathe. Wake up. Wake up.