I dream of the future like a planned oblivion from the couch, where I curl into punctuated forms wishing I was an anomaly. My body floated off an hour ago but we didn’t say goodbye, now I’m left contending with shapeless decades swirling, slipping, bending--balled up in the blankets for all the things I’ve seen. Unplanned and unforgetting, each time unbeknownst to me--thinking in the future, most days it’s all I see. I get anxious and depressed so I’m living the next ten years for the person I was ten years ago, and I might not even like those guys. Time is linear in a way I never agreed to, but the lighting in here is pale enough to convince me otherwise and I guess that will have to be enough tonight.