On Movement

I woke up at 6:34am. At 1:01pm I was sitting up in bed listening to Howard Stern reruns and thinking about nothing when suddenly I was struck by the brutal tranquillity of my apartment. Nothing moved. I looked around my room. The faint rays of sunshine breaking in through the blinds were frozen against the floor. Nothing moved. The bag of weed on my bed could not contain its tempting aroma. But it did not move. Nor did the EZwiders, ashtray or matches. My cell phone, a sleek black talking machine that folds in all directions, could not move lest it was trying to get my attention. The clothes hanging in my closet just hung. The shoes collected dust at a snail's pace. Howard was still talking, the radio loud and soaking my senses to numbness, but it would not move. The porno in my drawer was waiting for me. It didn't move. The food in my refrigerator did not move although some of it once did. The books and the albums scattered across the apartment would not move. The cologne on my dresser could not move. My big screen TV, a monolith of entertainment, did not move. The only things that did were the hands of my wristwatch, ticking in perfect rhythym, never straying from their endless path. I had been stuck in place, rooted in my niche, afraid to break the peace. But I had to. I had to move. So I found this pen and...