Spinning Plates

I see a typewriter when I close my eyes, the click-clack rhythm of my typing soothes the sleep deprived, the clear landing of the key on the platen sandwiching the paper between, leaving it's mark makes me smile. Instead of going slowly across the bumpy field I went fast, the goat head came to rest in my tire instead of where it was attached to it's plant. I see the chilly lake as I roll past, my crystal clear breath forced out into the cold air as the path rolls under my wheels. Tired to the point of sleep, paying my bill for a few days of not listening to the body's scream, whispering all the time to take what is mine. My ownership, control what you have not what you want.