torsion raze when he thought it was cold enough to appreciate them, he bought himself some new sheets. they were thick and soft and cream-coloured, with dark grey lines that looked like prison stripes. the cream took the menace away. the new sheets were perfect except for one thing. the fitted sheet, the one that hugged his mattress, was too small. it was too small by such a tiny margin, it was as if the person who determined the size of the fabric in its end state measured this specific mattress and left out the smallest amount of material they could so it would forever be almost just right. he could have made it work if the top right corner didn't keep prying itself loose every time he did anything. he sat down. the sheet popped off. he shifted a little. the sheet popped off. he thought about sloths. the sheet popped off. he always slept on one side of the mattress in case an opportunity to share his bed with another person presented itself before his bed became a coffin. he wanted to be ready for that. to give space to a body that belonged to someone he hadn't met yet and might never meet. but he still tossed and turned. he thought if he could append a thin strip of material to each corner of the fitted sheet, enough to tie around or thread through something, and then affix small loops of cotton or metal or fossilized bread, and if he could let the loops establish themselves on the underside of his mattress, four of them, one in each corner, and thread the strips through the loops, and tie knots that wouldn't win him any accolades but would do the job well enough, then maybe the momentum created by the fitted sheet being pulled in on itself would preserve it in the act of becoming, and the top right corner wouldn't be a problem anymore. you think of strange things at four in the morning when you're wrestling with new sheets. 210930 what's it to you? who go blather from