It comes way early. It creeps up on little cat feet, concealing claws the size of an eagle's talons, cruel and merciless and disinclined to allow dawdling on the Internet or over TV reruns. In the dark and chill, it demands I pretend day is dawning and later extracts revenge by leaving me hovering on the verge of sleep -- neither here nor there, unawake and yet not napping.
And tomorrow, I'll get to do it again. If it weren't for the chance of at least two breakfasts a day, it wouldn't be worth it.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago