Tuesday, September 28, 2004


Mornings are her favorite time. They are so full of sobriety and possibility—nothing yet wasted, so many moments waiting so expectantly, attentively. She wakes early by habit and with anticipation, not wanting to miss the gentle hours when the house and her world are silent and calm and soothing. She embraces the morning after a night of longing—longing for fears to recede to the edges of things, for solace to push its way through carefully, softly. Her nights are wakeful, watchful, on guard—marked by waiting and drifting, then waking and waiting again—every thought and sensation intensified, distorted, reveling wildly in the darkness as the red numbers glowing from the clock face change ever more slowly. Ever more painfully, interminably slowly.


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