The pile of clothes on my chair has taken shape and formed into a sentient creature.
The skin of my spring bathrobe, which I still haven't put away, stuffed with socks, underwear and dirty shirts; the creature - let's call it Fumplarp- gradually makes it's way to my bedside in the night.
I'm not worried about it doing me physical harm. Kind of hard to be physically imposing with no bones and muscle mass made up of wool.
No, Flumparp's only purpose seems to revolve around reminding me of all the things I failed to do today.
While you sleep it sighs disappointingly, as if to say, "you can sleep so soundly having not done anything with your day. How are those emails coming? The bag of garbage? How about those books you said you'd read. No no, you should sleep. You've earned it! What with your YouTube surfing, sudoku starting before abandoning, podcast listening, cat cry ignoring, won't go outside because you can't be bothered to lace up your boots workaday schedule. I wonder what such a one might be dreaming of. Most likely sleeping in past the alarm. Then again what do I know? I'm just the thing your negligence made..."
This is what adult monsters look like.
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