One Morning When I Wake

I emerge, worn out from the long hours that stretched sleepless across much of the night. The morning reveals my work, a headspace of holes dug by the burrowing machines of thought, a few scattered bones and a brain full of junk. I spend the day repairing my inner plot, raking over the holes, reburying the bones and using the junk to make a scarecrow I can hang above my bed. By evening I'm done. One morning, when I finally get a good night's sleep without being holed by the burrowing machines of thought ploughing through my head, I'll probably wake to find the buried bones have taken root and the scarecrow snuggled up beside me in my bed.