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Postmodern Village
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Talk about being bummed!
by Francine DuBois

It was a night when sleep came not on little cat feet,
but on the wings of a pegasus. Sleep was a fantasy
found only in counted-cross-stitch pattern books.

Like Marilyn Monroe, I turned to drugs: those azure blue
pills that taste like ice-cream coated dreamsicles and,
within an hour, whisk a cloudy haze over your mouth
and slowly suffocate you to sleep.

There is only a ten-minute window in which this works--
you only have ten minutes in which to give into the fog
before it evaporates. It is much like the window of opportunity
offered by that one drunk guy in college: refuse within
that ten-minute interval and your chance is gone forever.

On that night, I gave in during the sixth minute and sleep
slithered over me, plugging up my mouth, nose, and ears,
covering my eyes with black hands so the tv wouldn't blind me.

Fifteen minutes later, the spirit of drowsiness is gone, of course,
and the lucky ones are still resting. But then the phone rings,
and it's some guy you haven't talked to for three years,
and he wants you to tell him a story. He has decided he loves
the sound of your voice, but refuses to talk himself. Then he
confides he's drunk and just wants to masturbate to your
sleepy storytelling. You hang up. He calls back. You hang up.

You spend the rest of your night staring at the Home Shopping Club
and their advertisements for NASCAR memorabilia. Once the window
slams shut, there is no jarring it back open. Sleep was ripped from you
by the past, yet again. Talk about being bummed. And tired.

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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