a pen in a wheelchair

This room smells like old towels. The fan keeps the odor stirred and unsettled. Half the bed is for me and the other half is for my glasses, books, plastics bags, and pens. I hear the items shift when I reposition myself at night. The tiger above my head watches me sleep. No soft I love you's this year. I could handle the big lonely if my pen wasn't recovering as well. Damn the jewish carpenter's birthday.