I tend to lay everyday against the yellowed, tile floor looking up at the textured ceiling that wraps around wood beams. The ceiling looking cracked and fractured like a child's bone laying in a florescent cast. I lay there seeing faces against the platform above like angels looking through a fogged, glass ceiling. Gazing down into a fishbowl called reality. I wonder if they ever question what really happens down here. What really tends to grow.
A cool rag placed against a heated forehead, wondering if heaven exists - how long we are left to sleep. Someday we'll know.
Someday we'll know,
