She lays in bed reaching for the lamp switch to no avail. Although, with one swipe of her hand, the curtains are open, but no site in view. Squeak, creak, screech, squeal. The sense of sound could not be found; not a bird ‘round. Bound to the convictions of thee from he. The physically and mentally agonizing feeling comes into being from the alertness of something contemptible, imprudent, and preposterous. This is me.

But, how? Why? Could this be? The job market had dried up as well as the men. Children would not be in the plan, at least no more. The failures of thee were not of me but of he. This is me.

When shall cognition reverse field, change time and stop, where jeering, fleering, sneering took place. What immoral action had I committed to warrant this behavior? Again and again. Life is disorder. A symptom of another. The lamp has no switch; the curtains are open but no site in view.