Slowly, I am beginning to feel myself ossify. The exoskeletal husk containing me feels disconnected, as though I am loose inside of it. When I shamble outside and shift through the snow drifts, I feel myself clunking around awkwardly inside.

Last night, I thought I saw Jesus fall out of a tree. Children ran to him and pelted him with snowballs. It was so dreamlike, that I didn't even venture in that direction. I fell back into my house and dunked my feet into scalding hot water. The sudden submergence caused a splash across the bathroom floor that melted the chunks of snow that had fallen from my nearby boots.

In the past two days I've taken long naps in the afternoon. Vivid dreams took hold of me as I had wrapped myself in heavy blankets and blotted all light from the room. Even in my dreams I am an observer, and I awoke feeling old. There is no connection left to parry the discordant feelings pulsing through me as I shamble into the evening with an aimless ennui.

Come nightfall, I feel that the world is mine. I live in the night, and the day keeps me in a holding pattern until I get there. At this point I am completely unaware of my shell and delve into the crumbling edges of my consciousness. The ecstasy of finding everything you hate about yourself and turning it into a sort of lullaby or new addendums to the Canterbury Tales. In this case I travel alone, and leave Southwark in the opposite direction of Canterbury. I assume, at some point, that one of these tales will include the accidental trip inside of a space shuttle that somehow takes off with me inside of it.

Thinking to myself, "You are never quite sure how you get back, nor really what 'getting back' actually means." Home is a consolatory word that leaves an empty feeling in your chest, similar to how it must feel when someone says "docking yard". I feel like a stationary hobo, with all of the fineries in life such as a refrigerator, microwave, washer and dryer, television, and dish washer. Of course, being a hobo, these items are strange to me and don't quite fit my world. They are there accidentally, as though Zeus dropped them in my lap just to see how I'd react to them. Perhaps I am the newest actor in the next great epic adventure, a sort of anti-Odyssey.

And when these currents rest, and I am able to finally sleep at night, I let the sounds of rivers crest from deep within my memories and carry me to the ocean toward windy and stormy fraught-filled reminiscences.