| I have a blanket fashioned out of hair. A chickadee calls out and I awake with it covering my Love and I. We peel it back and rise for the day. My stereo's speakers are fashioned out of hair; a muffled tone barks through and I dance on hair. Our coffee is filtered through hair; yes, our kitchen reaks of a salon in the morning. I roll my own cigarettes out of hair. I can comb the blanket, the speakers, the coffee filter, the floor, the cigarettes, but don't. Loose hair everywhere now, which once was cause of incessant cleaning, is a way of life. Embracing irritants which were seemingly benign in the past has had to become commonplace today. In the future, this story can be modified by replacing "hair" with any of the similarly ancient relics of human's past. |
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