Yawn, Breakfast

The sunrise falls with the familiar thud of a Tuesday morning.  

Bleeps of urgency, hidden amongst the repercussions of an anarchistic filing system, leave three dreams short of enough sleep to collect their fragments and give consciousness a try.
The “merrily” chirping alarm, continues to go about its job with such a professional aplomb that it forms the fuzzy outline of a low screech   

It’s amazing how often fuzzy noises are so abrasive this early in the morning.
So with a fumble, a string of swear-word enriched sighs and a stretch later, thoughts can shift to something more pleasant.

Fried things. 

The crisp grease of bacon wrapt in an eggy hash brown mixture of healing. This is what Tuesday needs to smooth out it’s gritty texture.

But alas, prior preparation makes perfect practicality and a lack of this leaves no food in the fridge.  

So, again, a walk in the brisk winter’s air to retrieve a cigarette and red bull from the shops will have to do. 

This gives time for thoughts to appear and when they do they often collect…

In the past some have held the belief that Alcohol is in fact a time machine of long misinformed usage.

It’s primary fault appears to be that while operating the machine you lose interest in the future and, after excessive use you immediately forget the past, ruining any simple passage of time

But these thoughts are beyond Tuesday

It just got up.

Best leave it be.