First ThingMature

The early morning musings of a Withnail.

First thing in the morning (which is a lie, it is one o’clock in the afternoon, but it is my morning) and I smoke a dog-end found beneath the sheets that burns my throat and scorches my tongue.  A warning siren sounds, machines grind and hammers thud.  I cannot tell if these are the noises of the world at work around me, or the grumblings of my tired mind. Cheap coffee, cold and limp as my libido, raises my senses a notch, yet my eyes remain sticky.  I cough a deep lung cough, and, swallowing back the mouthful of resulting phlegm, head for the shower. It’s going to be a beautiful day!

The End

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