good morning

the sun rose long ago, it is now bleary and drunk and drowsily withdrawing itself from the day.
he lays asleep on a messy bed, his intentions matching the evenings conviction.
a stupor settles over everyone, all thought lost, mindless dazed and wordless
and they march, the march onwards towards certain uncertainty.
the singers hum a frivolous tune, the poets try to ponder a clever oxymoron.
they cant. they are blanketed by the stupor.
the dancers half heatedly skip and jump, sashes and pirouette.
they are clocked by the lazy stupor.
the scholars make small talk, the deep end left un wandered
they are warned off by the stupor
the children play, they run barefoot and fall and get back up running again.
they are untouched by the stupor. they do not understand it.
the fiery beast groggily lays for slumber.
he rises from the sheets, stands on the cold marble floor
the inevitable stupor temporarily lifted by the cool bottle.
there is energy and ferocity and melancholy but exceptionally jolly.
goodnight?
good morning.