Morning birds

And as the morning dawn kept crawling closer, shattering the night in a thousand pieces of passing misery, I could see the lights rising. I could feel the cold wetness of the trembling leaves sliding through my ever searching fingers.

One last drink.

One last sip.

One last minute of covering silence before the real world happened again. The ever comforting darkness, worn as the perfect jacket. The one you put you’re nametag in. The one you would never exchange for the new day coming.

God, how I hate morning birds singing.

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