Latke

Scraping your head against the ground, you hear sounds you do not tend to find while scurrying amongst carefully constructed and willfully digested worlds. Gone is any sense of clarity. Puddles of knobs, twigs, paperclips, loose change, and other items unnamed. What you were listening for is sidestepped by environmental residue's unwavering determination to be heard. Background and foreground are reversed. And reversed again. And again. The pain in your ear makes difficult the distinction between senses, and as this confused sensation drips down your face, the aggression of scalding bathwater comforts you. It covers you, but does nothing to cleanse the infected surface of sound. Layer after layer falls away. Layer upon layer grows in place. The conflict between internal and external remains, but between the waves you sleep softly if not peacefully. Good night.