His eyes were tired
he felt that he needed a rest
time would come later for him to finish the novelette
he lay his head on the soft pillow case
and let his mind drift into a haze of lace
blinded by pleasure
tormented by greed
but to what extent can a man plead
before the seed of his deceit grows thorns
thorns that cause others to bleed
and as the blood flows a line trickles down
down the side of a broken porcelain bowl
a line that lay tangent to the soul
a line that determines whether he will stay or go
the line is cut but the rhythm continues
with a jolt the man awakes
what was it
what was that sound
like a sweet chime off in the distance
so distinct, so familiar
and yet so foreign
the glaze fades away from his eyes
as he strikes the alarm
as an unseen force pulls him out of bed
to continue the cycle once again
and he types the final line on his Olivetti Valentine
The man retired to his quarters under that old faded sign.