The Washroom
The early morning sunlight rays.
Thin beams of light slides through the window.
My eyes open.
With a slight blur to my vision.
I get up.
And the day begins.
My body is paralyzed.
As if it can only go in one direction.
I enter a room a small room.
With white clean contrasting walls.
The sink lies motionless.
Dripping an echo of a tiny splash.
Suddenly a rush of water.
Buries the echo.
Then stops.
It leaves, moisturizing the dome.
Living it smooth and silent.
I raise my face and see a parallel universe.
In front of me, mimicking everything I do.
I turn to my right.
I face a large hollow rectangular bowl.
My foot enters a comfy, clean, cold gulf.
I turn on a waterfall.
Roaring as if it were Niagara falls.
But the bottom enters a swirling vortex of darkness.
A mist forms .
A ghost made of steam appears.
Then the roaring stops.
Into a motionless quiet drip of echoes.
I then grab a thick coat of soft cozy furs.
Coated in plain simple patterns.
Covered in soaked markings.
I equip myself into soft cottons.
I open the door.
The large form of mist bursts out.
And my day continues.