The morning enters as a bullet through your left eyelid, pulling back sleep. You lie on this Egyptian, spiked torture table, waiting for the light to rupture, so you will not have to keep dissolving the cyanide pill in your right cheek.
Even with a night filled with friendly faces, you still find a reason to fear the coming light. You know you have hours before the darkness resolves itself to be as accompanying as all of us, but you still fear that brightness. You know the sun will yell at you through the shades you bought to keep such a light out. You know the alarm will go off before the light even beats you as a fist across the face. You know the punch clock on the wall at work, which you have dreams of, will shriek and berate you before your lids peel, but you will fight it. You will understand, unlike your father—who has worked every day of his goddamn life since he was sixteen—that a night spent on something worthwhile is worth much more than a paycheck.
No matter how many dollar signs stack in my bank account, I will call in sick to work today, you think dreamily to yourself. But then the thoughts of all the places you could travel with such money earned from a hard day’s work invade your mind and you decide to rip your body from your bed sheets. When you sit up, you smirk at the clock, understanding that it does not have the power over you that it had over its previous owners. You see yourself wandering the streets your heroes walked, smelling that aged cobblestone and you finally, honestly wake and pull and shove at your hair in a dismantled manner, realizing that today will not be as bad as it seems now.
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