You're submerged in swathes of warm white linens as if washed up ashore from a shipwreck; limbs stiff from the voyage through dreams. Heavy eyes taking their own leisurely time to adjust to the soft yellow glow which emanates from the curtains hanging at the window. The shuffling sound of equally sleepy footsteps and a presentation of hot coffee prise you away from the haven of the bedsheets.
Perched on the illegitimate balcony outside the bay window thinking about how the first cigarette of the day is the bitterest, for there is nothing sweet about smoking. The cooing of a wood pigeon is like an absent-minded backing to the radio which has been left on inside. The street below has yet to become clogged with the rush-hour traffic, instead dog walkers and postmen drift along like the ghosts which haunt the corridors of old castles. Clouds do not congest the sky either, yet the sun has not yet disrobed itself from the rows of rooftops which protect its modesty.
Unorganised as ever, an empty kitchen makes for a legitimate excuse to visit the local bakery. The intimacy of a bakery feels much like human intimacy itself; enticing, gratifying for a moment but then unbearably sickening. Pastries and other sweet treats line shelves behind the glossy glass; like dogs in a shelter, each staring longingly at you with a look which implores 'pick me'.
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