Watch TV with sleepy eyes.

Sit low in thickly armchairs.

Engulf slothfully decadent mattresses.

Foretell often the secrets of couches.

Drown in the partiality of a luke warm bath.

Listen in quiet contempt for the stories of carpet.

And then go out to the ledge on the bridge connected to the road by the lake on the edge of town near the old oak.

There, we will find none of the things that keep us indoors.

Because we were meant for so much more.