in the twilight of dawn I can already hear the shower. quietly I wonder where the time went. I turn over and face the peeling paint on the wall, trying to grasp those vestiges of a dream which faded to air motes and half-light.
okay, I'll make breakfast today, and I hope you like oranges. no, I never bothered to memorize which fruits you like in the morning. I know it's been years, but I'm not superman and you knew that when you said I do.
don't tell me not to grumble quietly to myself; I need this bubble of relative sanity if I am to survive 5 am showers for nobody. you are fresh and clean, an angel, and your blowdried hair frizzes out like a halo. not a hint of gray. must be a new color you're using.
all right, fine, I won't light a cigarette, but I also won't change my shirt. I like the sweat stains. they make my profession seem like work and not like poetry.
I retreat to the backroom where my typewriter sits upon its unholy altar. the radio beside it stands presently silent amidst the ashes and crumpled pages. I would sigh as I sat down on my sagging chair, but I am not a sighing man.
instead, I groan slightly as my joints protest in their groggy morning voices and rest my *** upon the threadbare cusion of my favorite wooden chair. I find a station on the radio; something Haydn composed is floating through, and I talk to my secretary.
her voice clicks and clacks and rings when she breathes. she's speaking in stanzas and only I can silence her.