Episode 81

Reflections from the life and times of Mr. Smith. This morning when I woke up, my first thought was going back to sleep. In fact, I thought I still was asleep. For the room was dark. Very dark. Very, very dark. Very, very, very dark. Very, very, very, very dark! I tried to roll out of bed, and met resistance. If you say that like a French person, that sounds pretty awesome. Re-si-STONCE. Anyway. I met resistance when I rolled to my right, and when I rolled to my left. It was as if I were being boxed in. I sat up, and I hit my head. I was boxed in... I was IN a box. The inside was padded, as if someone had stapled a comforter to the inside. It was a coffin. Or so I feared. Suddenly I felt compelled to compose a dirge. Compelled to lament for the dead. I started thinking of all those who had passed before. Aunt Bertha. Uncle Eddie. Grandma Bartholomew. And of course, dear old mum. I had a strange feeling I was going to see them soon. Dun...Dun...DUN.  I decided to write a poem. And this is how it goes:

They all passed away
(Echo: away, away, away!)
They were no more
(Echo: more, more, more!)
I will soon be joining them
(Echo: them, them, them!)
I am sad.
(Echo: mad, mad, mad!)

Then I paused and reflected on mournful poems. And realized, I am a horrible poet. And I know it. Suddenly I had an incredible urge for Starbucks. That's kind of in like, Star Wars, where they have credits, but this is Star Trek, where they have star bucks. With this mournful thought, I sat alone. In the gloom. In my tomb.
    Thus ends this week’s reflections. And then my mirror image disappeared.