Friday, 9th May 1997
The dream dissolves into a warm, pink darkness and you realise that the morning is in your room.
Eyes open to see the curtains frothing light from through the window, colouring the walls and furniture with muted versions of their own.
Climbing out it's silently warm with that early post-night tang of chill clinging to your skin.
Autopilot on.
You shuffle to the window, pull back the edge of the curtain and peek out on a freshly-minted summer's day. Cloudless dusty blue, friendly hues, a potential joy to be in and of, light bouncing off itself to illuminate the shadows. This could be a really great day.
But first, coffee.
B
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2 comments:
You make this writing malarkey all seem so effortless, you talented bastard.
It was effortless - I'd literally just pour out whatever was in my head through my fingertips, like coffee from a filter machine. And as long as it seemed people kept wanting another cup, I'd always have a reason to keep the jug full and fresh. Daily.
Then I stopped and everyone started going out for their coffee, so these days the thing can go for weeks without even being switched on. Plus I can't get the good filters any more. And I think there's an old spoon jammed in the mechanism, somewhere at the back...
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