NEW YORK - SLEEPING WITH EVERYTHING

I have so allowed a state of clutter to amass and conquer my tiny living space that, rather than organize it, I have become its gerbil-style inhabitant and burrowed labbyrinthian trails to my bed, to my desk, and to the door. These dank, craggy pathways harbor many sharp objects of death. Stiletto boot heels, tangled purse chains and belts, broken glass, and lurking X-Acto knives bloodthirstily await for their chance to slash. I do have a small lily pad of territory on my bed, to which I leap when I must circumvent the hiding dangers of the floor. But my bed has also amassed most of the rummage and has melded into rolling foothills of clothes, boxes, papers and random gewgaws, which carve around my sleeping body like a dead dog.

At night I hold the pile like a lover and snuggle its girth. I wrap my leg around a cardboard mailing tube and nocturnally dig my hand into this one goth vinyl boot because it's a bit cool in there. There is a plastic bag of craft fur that is also comforting to cradle at night, and two winter coats, wadded into a solid bed-fellow. I'm literally sleeping with EVERYTHING.

After three months of this relationship with my pile, I now can see that I have slowly sculpted a sorta human shape out of it by nightly tucking, cuddling, and nuzzling. His head is a cardboard TV box filled with magazines, but looks aren't everything. He has a nice cuddle-worthy hug belly, despite some pokey, sharp areas where studded belts coil. Those studs always press into my shoulder during slumber. It's like getting a snuggle from a roundy chub metal dude wearing that studded leather gauntlet bracelet thing—it's kinda sexy and nice.

But hey now, pile and I keep it totally platonic. Nary an indiscretion. We got a good thing going on and I don't want to pollute what we have with the obscenity of grinding. Plus, if I did masturbate all up into his shape, the cuddle construction might be compromised.

ADRIANE SCHRAMM