Up too early by hours, the fog is there already. The world sunken in vapor, swaddled in mists. The slubby fit of water condensing on tree limb and exposed steel, the sound of a troubled faucet trickling away your sleep. I pick up the paper, wrapped and ready for the intransigencies of the weather. Cool damp plastic, the curled up contentment of this morning's stories. More details spread fitful, presented for the depths of forgetting.
We enjoy our hunger in small doses. The heft of this world of plenty letting us choose both fast and feast. Breakfast on last night's remnants, luncheon on whatever communal bounty is allowed. Famished for vanity, empty for science and all its sequels. Appetite returns to consume its corpse. The blood beckons and the beast obeys.
Hot coffee in a travel mug, steam blown back with morning breath. The mirror as blunt and artless as ever, confronted with this continuity of a vast decline. The face both sharp and shapeless, much of its retained value forensic. Pocked and creased, dotted with all manner of malignancy, this is the mask I offer the waiting world. The alarm goes off, and already I have been awake too long.
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