Cyclically finding, in the agony of the morning, a day is born. Internally screaming, audibly to myself, the unspeakable is making itself heard. In, or by, the chemical imbalances, these irrational fears are burning this, reluctantly half-waking, body with stinging, tempered cold daggers. I look and find a hand I know on the hilt. I lengthen the nights with distractions and pipe-possibilities to postpone this inevitability, this arrival, this lowest part of the new day. And so I have no choice but to rise. Me and the dog go to the sea and yearn, both, to be revivified by a wetness, in some form. It all depends. Sometimes this works out and other times just makes things worse. If I do sleep, I dream of spells, charms or potions which soothe the ailments or side-effect bouts of forgetfulness and good humour. But mostly they are cast towards those to whom my mornings lie shipwrecked upon.
Penzance, Cornwall, Morning. Nikon d750
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