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The morning started with a chit-chatter coming from my window. It was raining, cold, late. There was a stale taste of yesterday hanging on my lips; which I instinctively licked, and confirmed as the dew marking my just-cleaned window, it was there, lost spirits named after wild games, and a burn that gave tar for souvenir. It tasted of confusion and honesty. People wanting people for temporary company, and then some, just watching.
Unlike most mornings, I blinked hesitantly, disbelieving the grey that permitted the bit of light into my room of shells. The sound of a new day forced itself into my sleeping ear, and I turned into a bundle of curses until the beat started humming, from afar first, then louder, more alive than loud, unforgotten and demanding attention, and I, suffering from the recluse barricaded by art, of my hand and soul, was dragged to a trance, sheets falling to place, feet on cold floor, hands flirting with air.
(to be continued)
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