Good Night, Inanimate Objects.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the sounds my laptop makes disturb me immensely. Its little electronic groans. So human. Like a stomach digesting, quietly. Or the sounds I imagine a brain might make, whilst it thinks.

I want to close it down so it can sleep.

Which, in itself, is testament to my incessant personification of things.

But at night, everything needs to sleep. The teaspoons, tucked up in their drawer, the lights, switched off like shut eyes; even the clothes hang like bats at roost. 

Only the microwave, the oven, are left awake. Their insomniac eyes unblinking, red and green, in the dark.