Morning.

Ach! The harsh sting of waking. To lay victim to the thoughts that rain upon me. The cold is sharp, and gnaws at my toes. I retreat into the sheets, and try to retreat into sleep. No use. The sun is watching. She knows. Even as she rises, she knows. Progress has afforded us beds, but no time to lay in them. I rise to meet the still-pink sky.

Urine. Porcelain. Rushing water.

I poke at some meat and call it a meal. A pill afterwards, supposedly for health.

A sigh. Clothes drop to the floor. Rushing water. I am thrust violently into consciousness.

How lucky of you, dear reader, to know what I did this morning. Another reward of progress. I wonder what our children may have next.

The morning is a pretty thing, though perhaps not always immediately felt. The air is always crisp—Has there ever been more apt a word?—and the sun is gentle, loving. Her fury is for later. There is no time of day more…friendly.

The trick, perhaps, is to have something to look forward to waking up to.

Mine, well. I have found her. They have always been there. I fought to have a chance to do it.

Passions. Methods may change, but reasons often don’t. But to forget reason, and apply method? It is a death, and not a good one. Perhaps one of the worst kinds. Life is short. Die laughing.

I join some people I do not know in riding a hunk of metal. Together, we plug our ears that we may not hear. Together, we stare at screens that we may not see. Noise or silence, movement or stillness: we have our reasons.

All the while, the sun watches. I turn to meet her gaze.