My mornings are fairly predictable. Lovely, but predictable. They consist of a handful of email volleys, the half hearted run, and a typical breakfast of raisin bran. They may be punctuated by the stray phone call, but mainly they are quiet, beslippered hours, smelling faintly of tea and sweaty running clothes, and set to any of a dozen well-crafted Rhapsody radiostations. Unsurprisingly, they tend to run together in a warm indecipherable mass. I don't really mind this.
Except when things fall a little too eerily close. Like this morning, when I bundled the same pile of clothes off to the bathroom, humming the same two songs that preceded yesterday's shower, fighting the tug of a hangover that felt suspiciously familiar. Just a fold in my universe, I guess, but disturbing nonetheless.
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