They are everywhere,
billions for each person,
invisible strings
lined up to trap doors
knotted on light switches
sewn into the fabric of your clothes,
laid out across the streets
hung between bedposts
between book covers,
wrapped aroud the thread of a screw
and drilled firmly into dustiest corner
of your ceiling.
They tug on you 
each time get out of bed
or slip on your shoes
or lift your wrist to check your watch.
Pay attention next time you scrath your head
and keep a pair of scissors on your person,
but do not snip in the treachery of daytime,
wait until not even your own eyes can see what you are doing.