Imagine a morning in early March. In full tropical summer wake-up from a shapeless night to see one grow a grey hair from a too young age. I hesitate, but glimmered the socked appearance.
My cranny can no more do’er what seems like a nightmare bad dream is now taking a reliable part of me.
The thought of what to do and how?, becomes the issue that need to be settle in this unreliable morning. I was outré, with the poor picked hope of bad woke-up, that occasionally, mirror mine shadow of a same day like yesterday, that repeatedly, a half-not full wake -up pleasure of hope and blessing. As I steal a look outside, through a mini sunlight door, to see if it warm by a ting window that dressed itself to the exterior wall from sleep room, as the warm tells me we are moving pass winter now some days déjà past. I hibernate like any wide animals will do. In spite of how I felt, le négre attitude of laziness, gorgeously unfriendly character narrow me dawn, despite, all this fiction of May, June, July and August etc…. summer delight. Yet nature this morning never chased to held me look as if I’m dying slowly. Then come the hypnotized thinking of sheer rattiness having a serious certain allure that obviously weigh me completely inactive.
In mine rat romance of this morning sordid disbelief of me. The noiseless of the absolute finito, not at all un peu bit, but with greater absolute consequential fit of how the day journey will delight me through, of what I wish for myself , as I rattle with this furious fight, that I wanted to have everything in full heartedly in place in my head. Suddenly, I caress the sunlight that depressed my early morning hope dashed it out freely like this, as I gone through this dead-life sharpened edge that cut the splendour in me, the sprawling of the spirited spirit touch my chin abruptly, it sprang the fresh of the sheer of little flower on some big tree standing close my window door veranda of my house, like I was stand beside the still water of the memory of my village of birth, pasturing the quietness. I echo a gestate, but was rather euphemism. I forgot winter is going, looking more careless as to the idea of no more inside door, goes mine big head. What a morning I screamed in vain, ran to the delicatessen wearing of my walldrop old like this unfaithful morning. Now, that I’d seriously clean this stuff that steal my morning joy dishonest my heart, coward pretender, emotional crook, I whore the new me cool in the most perfect waiting the summer spanning begin blur my memory perhaps in a distant of hope. I know, it’s good to wonder, in-depth the heart for shine silence hope to replace the tensions unaffectionate to produce the unexpected end.