My head falls back onto the soft cloud:
I am awake.
The morning sunlight breaks through my window,
Stirring my sleeping eyes into consciousness.
The blissful silence is broken by the sting of the alarm bell.
I fade through the 14 aching steps to find a vessel for my Frosties.
Tea fills my blood with enough energy to stand and I make broken movements back up the stairs.
Dressing takes its regimented form: Suit. Tie. Shoes. Door.
The journey is as it is: a winding meander of the breaking morn. Clio steps up to third before the work door descends.
The day passess as the day always does: endless rambles of fascinating gambles.
Pupil trials and each with a smile break the monotony of any day.
The hum of my daily excursions is now noticeable as I retire to my chamber at evening light.
My pen finds its way to the vandalised tree, scraping the questions of progress and praise.
Night falls as every other: blurred optical zooms in eyes bruised.
My head falls back onto the soft cloud.
Tomorrow? Day, again.