“I’d rather be sleeping,” said John, sliding hangers back and forth, trying to find an appealing shirt.
Every day he left pieces of himself behind in his bed.
And the dust mites would eat them, as dust mites are wont to do.
He slid a t-shirt over his face, smearing his skin cells into the fibers.
He has left many impacts on the things in his life, sometimes too small to even be seen.
But they meant everything to those dust mites, who lived for generations, before he’d lay himself to rest again.
Is he still John then?