At a certain hour

You hear bells that aren't really ringing and thoughts move smoothly, but more slowly across the room like glacial barges cutting their way through frozen canal.

Is it time to stop? The music is coming from awfully faraway and that last note hangs in the air longer than it should. It's pretty and vacant. What language is this? Can I have another sip of tea or is this melting down of the eyes a serious matter, serious as the moonlight outside which you can't see because there are artificial moons strung up inside?

Let's continue this paper chewing, eschewing, espousing-mouthing of words tomorrow. My bed is covered with chalky papers in thick stacks. My nails feel too long on the chintzy keys. Sleep would be so welcome. Sweet if I could just ease down into the blanket. But there are lights to turn out and teeth to be polished with mint and the room smells like the soup bowl.

There are, as always, too many things to consider.