Odd man out
The sky drops down on our heads, the smoke climbs up to it in a simulation of a cloud; girls squeal, cat kneads; eyes droop and the morning is upon us once again. It keeps coming back to this: morning follows night better than clockwork. Clockwork is more inclined to stop.
Long breaks, closed eyes. Sleep is so becoming now. The girls are awake, L is singing, E joins in and so does Y. Odd man out. Very odd. Mostly. The drops on the roof monotonous, rhythmic, combine with the creaking of a new day. And the cat purrs, the pen scratches; eyelids droop once again.
Wakefulness is not becoming now, but I need be becoming wakeful.