the pillow sat, quietly typing away,
what are you working on, I wonder?
folding itself, it stirred and turned,
handing me a glass of water
such a glass it was infused with disdain
how bone and blood can burn and only cardboard is reclaimed
it’s a story, it told me in a far away voice
would you like a biscuit? just something to rejoice
staring ahead so intense,
like a blind man picturing color
I listened dreamily as the narration went
scribbling notes, losing nine out of ten