Even at 6am
The sun is already generous, blaring the lines formed in your skin by nightclothes from slumber into incalescence
The air that whispers through your patio that has doors
is bleak and
You feel like the ceiling fan is on electrical strike
Its supposed zephyr ruffles not the fine hairs on your arm,
nor the glass of dust in narcolepsy
You fumble through your sleeping bag that crackles
but the sonic alacrity tosses nothing to your ears and being
that has now chose deafness over hearing
comatose over awakening
Somehow your sight works just fine and the room
spins into eventual lights and silhouette, shapes and colors
and Pearl who sleeps on the right as the other 5 girls are too on the left,
lined next to each other in sleeping bags
like deceased in body bags in an amusing sorority tragedy comparison
You hear the guys down there stuttering awake from last night's hibernation
In no time you can expect
Karen's tinkering of a metal spoon,
creating a typhoon in her coffee, against the glass mug
Soon you will smell Jasbir's cigarette smoke from your veranda singing its way into your nostrils
and you find yourself wishing for that acquaintance you used to share
just so smashing your way out and smashing his cigarette end
would have been more acceptable in the name of friendship than
morning provocation as an ex-thingy
Now your thoughts are done
Thoughts are the only way to begin a day in the most civilised manner
since half of this town is in ruins and the locals express themselves in something more foreign than Babel
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