Extraordinary

If I wake up, I think I am dying. While, if I continue to sleep, the random double beat of my heart morphs into a snow yetti or bottle collecting chinese lady with skin like freshly bleached curtains. But I do wake and I do feel like I am dying. Only not like a real death. More like somebody a lot like me is dead and I just haven't carried out the body yet. Its not like its even sad really. What is left at times will try to cry. A tear, like a pearl of glass posited in front of my eye, made ready for the spring loaded plunger of my cares, announced with a solitary tap of the silver-est of symphonic triangles held by Buggs Bunny himself. And a littlest star spins and pulses doppler like, quickly receding into history.