There I sat, trying desperately to not drool in the middle of my daydream. Dare I say the class was but interesting and everyone I could consider was my bed? rather than daydreaming of a hunky man, or perhaps a bright future paved with a golden road of success, I accustomed be dreaming of my bed. it had been a standard college dormitory bed: you never understand what percentage of people actually slept in it, or did something else in it, yet I still find comfort in its lumps and bumps. within the brilliance of my afternoon, laziness I made a choice that daydreaming about my bed wasn’t silly the tiniest amount bit. in the end, I should commemorate my bed with a poem and barely a cartoon drawing of it.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten my notebook so I started to doodle on the prehistoric thing called a desk. Knowing that writing an ode to my wonderful bed on another piece of furniture was loaded with irony, I hesitated to commemorate my bed on this horrible, and unworthy desk. Since I was accustomed be out of paper and out of options I shrugged my shoulders at my hesitations and commenced my ode to my bed. Oh, an endearing friend of mine Soft, sweet, and truly divine. Only I understand your charm stick with me always and I’ll keep you from harm. Okay, so this wasn’t a Shakespearian sonnet, but I found it worthy at the time of this creaky and uncommonly hard, desk. This poem was followed by several crude drawings of my bed. Then I found myself enthralled with the words etched into the wooden canvas before me. Being a university desk, there are the token swear words and brilliantly crafted phrases like “Bobby Joe was here.” The etchings I found of interest weren’t even etched in; they were merely drawn with pencil. What a daring move for the author to form.
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Someone could easily transform his verse into something crude. Or his musings could easily be erased from the oaken easel. What a brave artist! In my fascination with the brilliant prose scribbled on my desk I completely forgot about commemorating my bed. My mattress did not seem to merit my precious daydreaming time. Instead, I might prefer to dedicate the remainder of the category period to deciphering these brilliant etchings. Discreetly tilting my desk so that I could observe the poem of interest at some way better angle I suddenly catch the attention of my professor. My professor is additionally someone who is fascinated with hearing himself talk. Therefore, I’m usually guaranteed an honest hour of daydreaming and composing poetry. But today he looked as if he'd actually noticed that there are others within the world, apart from himself. Just my luck, the day I'm truly inspired by something I see at school and my professor feels the need to step off his soapbox and truly notice.
The professor’s darting eyes began to specialize in the heads that appear to be coming up and down in an exceeding chorus of sleepy daydreaming. He tested me as I continued to balance my desk at this perfect angle. rather than saying anything, he merely nodded his head as if he knew exactly what I accustomed be plotting in my head, and continued walking around the room. Now what should I do? Should I continue my attempt at deciphering the scribbles on the desk or should I actually try and hear what the professor was saying? While pondering over these questions I found my eyes gazing at the desk again. it had been as if what was written on this desk was meant just for me. And, if I didn’t observe it at once the message would dissolve into the choice thoughtless scribbles of “Bobby Joe was here.” I couldn’t let such a fate happen, so I swallowed all inhibitions and peered closely at the graffiti. gazing at the glossy-coated desk made me quite dizzy I wasn’t sure if I could last in my mission. Finally, I feel accustomed initiating to deciphering what was written on the desk in pencil. I couldn’t wait to travel searching out if it had been really as profound as I had imagined it to be.
Don’t forget to divert your eyes from the professor. Once you create eye contact the spell is broken and he will appeal to you... What on earth could that mean? I glanced quickly up at my professor only to catch his eye. “Ah, I see one in every one of you continues to be alive!” he said maliciously, “Can you tell those folks who are still awake what Byron meant when he said ‘She walks in beauty, kind of like the night. Of Cloudless climes and starry nights...?” Oh no I had broken the spell! Now I understood what the prophet of the desk had meant. I mumbled some nonsense about an unrequited love, which looked as if it'd satisfy my professor. He looked as if it'd think he had reached his quota of in-class discussion with my comment, so he went on reproval himself, completely self-absorbed. In my desperation to travel searching for the protection of a daydream another time I started to scrawl deep, dark marks on the desk
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