Empty head syndrome plagues me lately. That man of stone with bad posture and Rodin have won my sympathy. I earn my keep while others sleep and sleep while birds are singing. I live in the hours of dreams and dreams are how I'm thinking. Beethoven’s bird calls to me as I finish the last of my labors. His high pitched Fifth echoes in my cerebral chambers. In predawn glow I pass between the buildings. Leary of rabid raccoons and weary. Concrete’s unyielding. My feet are wearing their bones on the outside. My senses being woven into cocoons. While formaldehyde pop machines keep things popping. As my zombified body eats my brain. When I’m finished mopping I’ll be on the road and home again... sleeping.