The morning after the night before. Which is good, it means you’ve survived. Lived to tell the tale.
My tongue licks sawdust and cries out for coffee. I agree and duly oblige. My tongue cries out again when I put the steaming cup to my lips. I think of my plans for the coming day but nothing materialises. It seems too large a step from where I am now to where I should be later.
My mind is grey, a bit like the January day which sits heavy outside my window; even the birds are reluctant to make themselves heard over the nothing in the air. Everything is flat, except my tongue.
The day seems to be wrapped in cellophane and I am the Clingfilm Kid. Get off your horse and make a Western out of that.
I’ve no revolver but my pen works fine and that’s something to go on with.