No. 6

I always walk around that little square of shag carpet in the living room. Tip-toeing, balancing precariously on it's edge, trying to grab a magazine off the coffee table without dipping a single toe in its fibrous depths. I'm pretty sure it's alive, small creatures lurking in the wool forest, waiting for a succulent foot, or a dropped potato chip. Whispering to each other when they think I'm not listening, placing bets on whether I'll reach my latest issue of Vogue or drop to the rug and be lost forever, like the countless pennies, paper clips and stale cookies before me.