Some days I make my bed, others I don’t. There’s something rewarding about making a bed, an accomplishment. Making a bed also covers things up; skin cells, sweat and mites get trapped under a made bed, these can cause asthma and allergies.

Sometimes an unmade bed feels lazy. Other times it feels like ambition, a life so well lived there’s no time for bed making.

I wonder if an unmade bed can be more aesthetically agreeable than a made bed. Art is almost always better when it feels unfinished, even though it is finished.

Maybe an unmade bed is more honest than a made bed, more like the naked body than the clothed. You can see the truth, that which we spend so much time trying to cover up.

People look magical when they first wake up and they’ve forgotten their surroundings. I fall in love with people and their most honest moments all the time, their breakdowns, their drunkenness, their smeared makeup, their daydreams, their unmade beds.