I twirl the globe on my night stand.
The bumps of the meridians and the Andes Mountains graze the pads of my fingers.
Spinning, spinning, whirling softly,
I do not notice the strobing of light outside my window.
My fingers become dry and my eyes become blurred from all the turning.
I stop the globe.
I look up.
I did not notice all the days ending.
I was too busy passing time.