Regular monday morning. Warm under covers, cold without them. I drag myself from the bed, look out. Overcast. I smile. Days like these are plenty. Lack of light, reflective of my state of being. Voice from the radio croons. Waking up unhappy is a cure, for what I know not, I'm certain that it is. Must be. For something.

The floors cold, or is it me. Maybe me. This change was uncalled for. I kneel, pray. Pray for the old days to be born anew. I beg for home. Long lost home.

Every day is real. Every day reminds me of yesterday.