Ekphrasis of somthing

I have felt it, you have felt it: the longing embrace of the bedsheet, kissing drowsy lethargy into his bones. Five more minutes on and on until necessity rips him from the embrace of his cotton lover. Five minutes late, not much time- but so much when in sleepy ecstasy. He craves it. He morphs his life to be like sleep: slow and unmoving like his body shrouded and smothered by the bedsheets, erratic and uncanny, the haunting silhouette of life- an imitation of his dreams which are radicalised against the dullness of is reality; and rhythmic and predictable like his shallow breaths never once developing into a snore that could shake and annoy his companion- if he had a living one. Another day, another alarm and another five minutes too little. 

 He begins to question whether the joys of going out are worth it when the world conjured in his sleep is too vivid, too mystical to match. When asked, he defends patriotically his position and vice as a practice for when death comes. Waiting for another lover to take him away from his silky spouse, and adventure, always forging ahead into the malleable and fluid dimension of the mind. That acidic fluid that, in time, will dissolve his bones into nothing, leaving behind a fleshy husk, drooping towards the afterlife when judged and found guilty of sloth.  

Yet, a virtuous man, a body defined by the countless struggles overcome tries to save him. The rough marble muscles impose its strength across his small holding of the painting, trying to save one sinner from damnation. All could not bask in salvation, but just one might be given that opportunity. Yet despite all that strength that the saint could coerce out of the fleshy sack, he still fell towards the underworld, dripping like honey to his final sweet slumber.