It's 5am and I am a slave to the ceiling fan.
The hypnotic flinging blades jilt my unblinking eyes.
I'm tortured by their indomitability.
Listless and motionless I lay victim to their taunting chill.

When the lights go out I am still aware of it.
The spinning.
If only I had such redundant purpose.
Such collected poise.
Instead I am abandoned to the thankless spots of used sheets.
Still and searching.

And still searching.