Renaissance

I awaken this morning with the sun and the cocks crowing at the purple sky. The faucet is on in the bathroom. I turn it off and sit down on the toilet. I can see myself in the faucet's chrome hardware, hunched shoulders, stoic growl. I move my body to alter the shape of my reflection. It's uncanny how malleable we become, superimposed on mass-produced plumbing fixtures, mirrors into drugged out worlds and early morning thoughts. These are the every-day muses that support human introversion, echoes on bone and sinew.

I fart out a fist full of shit and again my classification is obvious, a generitype covered in geometry and equations, surrounded by sharp corners and cold tile; time will not stop for my thoughts. I turn the faucet back on so as not to interrupt the flow.