Mind clear, hair a mess, the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. The bleeding horizon, giving the day its start, as if the world stood still when the sun wandered off.

It is always quiet in the early morning hours, a peace that eludes the rest of the day.

Walking outside, feet bare, feeling the cold stone radiate its midnight chill throughout.

As long as I could remember, I had always been a morning person. I always woke up early. Sleeping in, to me, was a foreign activity, like putting mayonnaise on fries.

It was always the cleanest part of the day, free of the shortcomings and woes that we're sure to follow. The start, when your head was still held high, before the world bestows its burdens upon you.

Spilling through the horizon, painting the world, illuminating every last corner, washing away the results from a time prior, awakening the town crier, all encompassing, forever watching; the sun knows it's place.

Coffee, the sounds of the liquid gurgling into the pot like a decrepit brook, producing a wonderful nectar, warming me throughout.

The burn of the brew, stinging the upper lip and front of the tongue, cursing myself for not waiting a moment more. Tendrils of steam licking my face as I sip, warning me of the temperature.

The morning is a time for you, before all the responsibilities, before the judgements, before the disapproval and sadness, before the world gets to you.