As I brush my legs against the warmth of my sheets and slide my permeable body towards the window, I seam my eyes open in search for some light. The morning sun shines in and I believe again in the depth of another day. The morning is not comprised of knowledge but of a collective unconscious effort at kosher beauty. In all respects, the morning is not wise, it is a naive attempt at beginning. Conscious of knowing practically nothing, I refuse to believe the wisdom of the morning will fail me. Brushing my hands against the glass, I realize I am waking up in the age of miracles, the age of science.
"Something slow has started in me,
I’m shameless as an ocean
and mirrored in devotion”