My immatation of Thomas Wolfe

The ringing of the phone breaks through the warm cocoon of my dream like a kick to the head. Shaking, kicking my way out of tangle of blankets, I pluck the caller id box from its space on the worn yellow carpet. Symbols and ciphers dance across its screen in a blurry haze. In anger and frustration, I tear it from the wall and throw it into the deepest darkest corner of my night shadowed room. Its too late though. Sleeps spell has been broken and my stomach growls with the hope of corn pops and orange juice. Stumbling like a blind man, I find pants and a shirt and haphazardly fall in to them. I navigate my way down the creaky, slippery steps like a drunken bull in a china shop. The laborious weight of the day falls on me like passed out co-ed, keeping me form enjoying the hail storm raging out side to its full potential. As the day begins, my thoughts drift to the silence and solitude that the night brings and that warm fuzzy glad feeling that comes with the realization that I am only hours from sleep again.