rejectomorph | Days of the Flies

Five AM, and new light shows the dim sky smudged with clouds like dark bruises. The robin chirps insistently, drowning out the crickets. The house is still too warm. Lights show from the windows of early risers who will soon fill the streets with the sound of their cars. I will close my blinds and shut out the scorching sunlight, but the heat will penetrate the walls and the roof and obliterate all trace of night's gentle air nonetheless. It will wake me too soon, and I will cast off blankets and return to sleep, and perhaps be fortunate enough to dream that I am dozing on some beach, rather than trapped in a blazing pit of tar. Inexorably, the season of hell approaches.