This morning, I jolted awake to my own dizzying meditation, new music and color to them. Nothing dreary or celebratory, just pleasantly neutral like a taunting blank page.
The loft, warning me against procrastination or any despair… Don’t you fucking dare, it says.
I stayed in new architecture and attitude, begging my spine to stop acting like it’s auditioning for a haunted house, if that makes sense. Just feeling my age this morning I think.
Downstairs, the espresso machine counts, from 10 to 1… “Where are you? Don’t you want some more? She hums a passive-aggressive “Really, you’re still here?”
“Rude.” I think to myself, throwing the little pod into the bay, power on push single-shot.
Mornings aren’t about precision. I imagine the Nurse’s cat staring, his eyes screaming “Really Mike???”
I’d nod back, “Yep, we’re in this together Portable B, comrades in the daily squib of pretending we’ve got it figured out.