mornings are like little deaths; the gaping jawl of the reaper, his teeth both rotting and sharpened, looming above the head of the wakened, threating to consume it

then, of course, there is the wee one, fast becoming not-so-wee; and his immutable morning soundtrack

the sound, of course, audible to no one but himself, he wages this silent but bloody war against the agony of morning, forcing his reality upon us loathe to stir from our dreams

would that mornings never were