It's always a bit weird to start typing seconds after stepping out from under the covers. The cold wood means you're feet are probably more awake than your head yet you still are vaguely aware of fingers hitting keys and words flickering across the screen.
And then, in a blink, you're aware again. Clarity settles in, your typing slows, and you start looking for something or substance to ruminate upon instead of just letting things flow from the unknown.
A kitten scratches at a door. The tic-tock of a clock is heard two rooms away. The fussy rustle of sheets in the next room sounds like breaking waves. Everything grows ever larger until what was once a serene early morning haze is replaced by the glare of minimalist sounds drawing together to give shape to the day ahead.
And this is how it always starts.
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