The wheels rattle under me as I make my morning rounds, like
shopping cart overly abused and won't make up its mind which direction it
should go, not so much hamster wheel like hers, yet overwhelming, keeping me
awake but more like an annoyance or nagging I can't suppress and must endure,
leaving me on the edge of sleep where I can't discern between wake or dream,
maybe a bit of both, leaving me to wake exhausted from too much running around,
this place or that, this side of the dream line or on the edge, where I wait
for worries begin, the rattle of the wheels louder the closer I come to
consciousness
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