Harps and strings, birdsongs. One of those rare mornings where weird and minor chords ease you from dream to breakfast and you don’t think to recall what day it is or what yesterday might have to do with today. The clock offers crude advice, but it’s the sundial through the window tells you how to begin.
Later, but you don’t know or care exactly when, it’s that feeling you get when you suddenly stop and get stared at. Like that scene in the Truman show, you begin to suspect it’s all a delightful joke.
Then it’s those everyday moments of light that get you. Smack you. There must exist a word for it, that random pairing of a visual instant with a sound, maybe a snippet of lyric. Synchronicity, acute proprioception, that bit of lucidity you get when you lean too far back in your chair, the millisecond before…
Every mundane detail, each stain, has some epic story to tell. Some stories just haven’t happened yet. This is what you decide. Cause and effect be damned.
Those alleys sometimes require a helping hand. Ikebana – flower arrangement – but with deck chairs and rain barrels. It makes you feel like you’re helping out. Reality approves.
At the end of it all, overtired inspiration, liberating you from a day well wasted, all stealth and determined mischief for the Monday to follow.