I just had to, this is the hour of the most productive words that I have in the day. With coffee, with the sun barely out of its western conch shell, its coral rays spreading across the day. Yet at this time the sun is not hot, it is inviting. Perhaps for that reason is why I can write fully at this time. It is the hour of the porch of possibilities. This is the time that we can honorably hide behind a cup of coffee, filling the cup until the demands provoke us into movement. It is a better time done in the house, there invulnerable from the day.
But now sitting at work, waiting for the clock to strike the hour of movement, the hour of momentum. Where I will roll until I find that impenetrable object called quitting time. I know by that time the sun will be out, and my eyes will return to normal. No longer able to see beyond what is there. My mind will no longer be able to float, and glide and be free. The humidity will be up and ready, crashing upon us in that August Vacuum called Summer in the South. By 3 o clock, I will dented, soiled, bullet-ridden by the day. It is at that time that I retreat once again to that cup of coffee, it becoming my respiratory, bringing me back to life.
The problem is, just when I am living like a human being again, it is time to return to the Thunderdome. The experience similar to taking attendance before a barbarian horde.
With the crash of the bell, its rim of iron cascading across campus, seizing all dreams and hopes.
The world stops the imagination, pushing the day forward, like a clock without a snooze button.