I was given two knees at birth and they're still hanging around. Which is a good thing, because one of them is grinding away, next to useles, and the other is carrying my prodigious bulk all the hours of the day.
I think it must be sympathy pains for the bum leg worn by corporate partner Stu. Yes, his blood clot is no more and he is moving about again. To say the blood flows hot in his veins is not an exaggeration of romance novel proportions. They thinned him out as a painter will dilute his paint. But he can at least enjoy a beer again.
I sit here in 4 am stillness, in a silent house, and wonder about things. I noodle around a website or two, visiting with a smile the musing of those on this forum and others. If I don't think too long and hard about it, I can summon up a picture of who is doing the writing. I wonder, with astonishment, how many are out there writing, and living, and carrying on with things of small consequence.
4 am is the only part of each day that I reserve for myself. I'll dangle that pound of my flesh like a worm on a hook for the rest of the day, but the early morning is for me. And it matters. On the rare day that I sleep late and go all a-rushing about to get onboard the train of activity, I feel a good bit emptier than normal.
4 am is cow milking time, newspaper delivery time. Time for quiet and order and the end of night. It is reserved for those who can live without the shrillness, the pettyness of 11 am, with its' cell phones and traffic tie-ups and shrieking spreaders of the gospel of correct thinking. Here, with a day laying in wait for you, not in an unfriendly way, for you know not what the day will bring. Closing eyes and remembering good mornings, tight with the smell of coffee and woodsmoke, so many of them given to me, and so shyly, by a source of unknown kindness.
My mornings, like my life, bless me with richness. I awake as a king to his world.
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