The sun crept in my room through the shutters. Miraculously making its way straight for me eyes. As if to taunt me, "Didn't get enough sleep last night did ya? Didn't go to bed on time, did ya? Well, now you're gonna pay." I fought it off momentarily and cussed a little under my breath before rolling over facing opposite of the blinds. I felt like a man who'd just been shot out of a cannon and hadn't landed yet. I was bracing for impact. I was at that point in my life, the point of total waywardness. I felt like one day I was wading in the shallow waters of a lake then I stumbled upon a dropoff and was taken under for a period of 4 years only to resurface recently. Yes, that's how it goes though.  Just another prisoner of war. So, I hadn't been getting much sleep as of late. I'd stay up for 2 to 3 days consecutivately at times. I figured it was better that way, didn't wanna miss out on anything. But I felt the ill effects of it after a while, the dilirium. I often found myself conciously awake, but my mind was somewhere else. Like 5 or 10 years in the past. This one particular time I ended up back on my Grandpa's farm, though he'd been dead for many years and his old house had since burnt to the ground.  I could hear the baseball game roaring  on the radio in the kitchen from outside. . I was walking barefoot through his back yard, there was dew on the grass and the trees were greener than anything I'd ever seen. I peered through the screen windows at the back of the house. There he was, listening to the game, a Marbolo wasting away inbetween his fingers, with a blue button-up t-shirt on, only halfway buttoned of course. His trademark eye-patch on. He only had one eye, for most of my life I never knew how he lost it. Never bothered to ask. But I remember asking my mother once, she said a piece of rock richocheted into his eye when he was doing some work once. Turns out, it was a lie. When I was about 13 I asked my grandpa how he lost his eye. "Well, some son of a bitch hit me across the face with a whisky bottle once upon a time. But, I did a number on him with a shovel."  "Who's winning?" I said to him as I took a seat at the kitchen table. "Who do ya think? The Reds can't win a damn thing, you should be pitching for them". Naturally I laughed, because deep in my mind I knew the Reds weren't worth a shit then, and still today, long years later they aren't worth a shit. He turned off the radio in disgust and picked up a newspaper and left the room.  I made my way into the next room, which was the dining room. It had my grandma's antique table in it, with some cabinets against the wall, and of course her old teapot that was jet black with roses painted on it. Next was the living room, where the TV was located. There were newspapers everywhere, and numerous coffee cups either on the coffee table or on the floor next to the couch or chair. I paused for a moment, thinking to myself, "So many good times spent in this room." I remember when there was a blizzard in the early 1990s. It knocked  off all power and phones for weeks. Luckily my grandpa had a gas stove instead of eletric. I don't know how many games of rummy we played during that time period in the back room, sitting next to the stove. When we got sick of card games we worked puzzles. I really enjoyed being snowed in, despite the -20 degree tempartures. Then I head towards the front porch.  My grandpa's the only person there. Paper in hand, reading it intently. Looking up to admire the scenery every once in a while. The front porch was his domain. He used to spend 4-5 hours a day out there if the weather was nice. Shooting the shit with anyone who'd listen. Telling old war stories or whatever the hell else anyone wanted to talk about. Yeah, he was in world war 2. Joined the army when he was 18 and got shipped off to Germany right away. He usually didn't like to talk about the actual war itself. But sometimes he'd get carried away with a story and end up saying something like, "Yeah, we used to burn Germans alive in Foxholes if they didn't come out". Ironically enough I recall this one day when I asked him if he ever killed anyone in the war. He looked at me with stoic eyes, "That's not the kinda question you're supposed to ask a man." Then he turned and looked off in the distance.