this is what my drive home produced...

The springs of her bed creaked and groaned with every tired tousle, any reasonable readjustment, driving her to submit to the land mines beneath: she made each night's slumber as motionless as possible. This still, however, did not take care of the untamed springs that would poke and prod her like an unanswered toddler--poke, poke. Neither the metal coils nor a being so small possessed the ability to understand such an annoyance. Even so, the thought of removing herself from the hot-pocket cocoon her mere six and half hours of undesirable, rigamortis-like hibernation had created was a difficult one. But it was peculiarly defined moments such as this--along with the seasons when pointy-toed heels outshined round-toed pumps--that allowed her to be, for once, thankful for the authoritative gradient her toes took, allowing her to attack the uncovered air...One. Digit. At. A. Time.