Putting his best foot first off the ledge of the bed, As the sun slowly glistened outside, Striking its rays at the ground in installments, The tired bed-covers hugged the floor, And he arranged his feet level to the door. His habits reflected conditions, And he practiced life like it was his religion. What felt strange then was the complicated information; The distance between him and the door, Could be the same as him and his past. If it was locked in dimensions of numerical measurements, And pensive estimations. Maybe all that was suspended between today and yesterday, Was a brick bedded bridge. He made his way back to then. And he held the door undone for a while, He was open for the time. Don't let him see through the clocks, Now running races before his eyes, He twisted their arms to meet, and to lap over one another, And when what he was winding was wound, What he was finding was found. The separation and space, Was a little more than his legs could fathom without numbing. So, he went back to sleep, In his favorite place, Next to the sunrise, Wearing water on his skin.