Sleep drifting deep, deep drifting sleep. . .

Yesterday evening as I studied History in the bedroom, I nodded off. I hadn't slept well for some days, so Mom didn't wake me up. She covered me with a blanket, with all my clothes on. She shut down my computer and did every pre-bed ritual (placing of covers and putting away stuff, etc.) for me. Then she tried shoving dinner into my mouth, but didn't get more than a slurred question about my computer. As soon as she assured me that she had turned it off, I turned myself off too. Today morning I woke up, sweating under the extra layers of my non-night clothes. It was such a frantic morning. I always pack my bag carefully the previous night, but I had to do it in half the time in the morning. And I still left my crotchet needle back as I grabbed the staple and the wool to take to the stupid mandatory S.U.P.W.(craft) class. S.U.P.W. is supposed to stand for Socially Useful Productive Work, but as some wise person once said, it indeed is Some Useful Period to Waste. Plus I only realised it once I returned home. I genuinely thought I'd lost it, back in school. Oh, though I feel sleepy, and History's so boring, please don't let me do that again, Ma. I can't stop it myself so...

The title which seems rather appropriate, is not so if you take the parent context into consideration; the lines are from Wilfrid W. Gibson's 'The Ice-Cart', a poem in my English course-book this year; it's the last poem on this page, if you're interested. Image courtesy Google Images, as is usual on the LoudSpeaker.