Waking to the company of the moon. A tired life.
The leaves had long since shed themselves to grow anew again, when the cold moved on.
Streching angerly, for sleep was no friend.
Bare feet on the oak floor. Creaking under the weight it was asked to bear.
The closing of the refrigerator door and the always calming cup of chai.
Sinking wearlily into a chair.
Perhaps it was a predictable life, but it was the one of choosing.
The feel of fur against one's bare leg was often a sensation that went unnoticed.
Hunger, as usual. Spoiling the only company you have, but for what purpose?
Sitting, staring at the moon, as it hangs boldly, by unseen threads.
Life in all its unseen mystery.
A letter. From a lover. According to inner fantasy. Unopened on the table. Waiting for the invariable escape of sleep. A welcome break from the usual bills.
A tale of kindred spirits or a deeper meaning to something ordinary.
Or simply, nothing at all.
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