How Ideas Become Great Literachuh

Early this morning, during the exodus of wispy, mottled-gray dream remnants and just before sunrise, I lay in bed, curled around my down-escaping pillow. My crusty eyelids were squinched shut, my nose was whistling and my upper back was tensed in fear that Dot or Merv would, once again, want to go in/out/in/out/in/out/scratch door/mew/chirp/in/out/in/out.

And that was when "The Great Unwashed" scrolled across my brain, out of the blue. What did it mean? Is this an essay I should write? A short story of bleakness overcome by glittering hope and free credit cards?

And that was when I opened my mouth into the pillow folds after which escaped breath that defied the emissions from the least-maintained septic tank in history.

My body has its own organic screensaver in my morning head.