He used to lie on his back to get to sleep. The stillness of the night would tie each limb to linen, and as the soft caress of yellow light reached through the curtains, he would breathe sleep.
Throughout the years, he noticed with gradual intensity the cracks on his ceiling as they became more prominent against the white. Cast iron shadows would creep suddenly over each break, and as the black of night grew, so would the lines. They threatened to envelope him.
He began to sleep on his side, one protective shoulder standing guard against the angry ceiling. His eyes could stray and tie to objects he'd never taken the time to see before. He would examine the bends and folds in posters tacked hastily to the wall, see each tear as a travesty. For the first time, he saw clearly, saw the details that were carelessly executed before.
Sheets down, bare feet scrape the ground, and the subtle click of the light would stream light into the room. Fix, tape, smooth, it was all in the techniq