Everything is as it should be when I wake up in the morning, roused by the sun and birdsong. No urge to check anything online or on my mobile. Hungry, what immediately fills me is the yearning to write and take advantage of the first hour when my mind is clear.
Still as water, lighter than clouds. Some pray first thing in the morning, others meditate. I walk silently in a dimly-lit street, which could be a memory, a tapering emotion, or a sentence that is threatening to collapse on itself.
Call it a place, an event, even an illusion. Sometimes the silence stares back, or I fall in. Sometimes I am less than dust, if I'm lucky, tumbleweed.
Sweater, Springfield; shirt, Crocodile; jeans, Maison Martin Margiela; belt from a market in Milan; espadrilles from Aldevinco, Davao; Young Camel satchel, thrifted