Next to Nothing

Next to unconscious in a powerful slumber, I can hear disconnected dialogue from the Home Movies DVD I left in the player, and I can hear a sweet, little voice asking if I would, possibly, make some dinner tonight before the front door closes and locks from the outside...
Next to awake, I’m halfway to the office before I realize that I can hear Ani DiFranco telling me that everyone is a fucking Napoleon, before I can hear the brakes grind like a tin lunchbox against a cheese-grater, before I can hear my inner-voice, the one that’s supposed to be my conscience, telling me to drive my car off a bridge, to jump out at the last second, to roll until the momentum’s worn off, to sit and watch said car buckle and explode against the rock-face of those cliffs they have in Road-Runner cartoons...
Next to the computer, I can hear the brewed coffee sizzle on its battle-tested heating plate, the contented sighs of my puppies in their cave of blankets on the couch, the long-distance ring of the telephone signaling either questions from the boss or a 1-800-number jockey telling me how I can minimize my monthly phone-bill by switching to a competing service-provider...
Cigarette lit, coffee in hand, staring at the computer-screen, as I sit down to write this I can hear next to nothing...